Drifting Cloud
by Araceil
Summary: After telling the magical world to go fuck themselves, Harry leaves, and declares his refusal to fight Voldemort for them. They're on their own as he rediscovers the forgotten Black Legacy and steps into a brand new world. Mild Abhorsen, Kingdom Hearts, DN Angel, and Ocean's 11 crossovers. Slash.
1. Chapter 1

**Drifting Cloud**

 _ **000**_

 _After telling the magical world to go fuck themselves, Harry leaves, and declares his refusal to fight Voldemort for them. They're on their own as he rediscovers the forgotten Black Legacy and steps into a brand new world._

 **KHR/HP, mild Old Kingdom, Kingdom Hearts, , and Ocean's 11 crossovers.**

 **Slash**

 _ **000**_

 **CHAPTER ONE**

In all truthfulness, he had always been something of a coward. No, perhaps less of a coward and more just... selfish? Lazy? Impatient? Ahh, it was hard to explain. He didn't understand it fully himself, just that he had a melting point, his bullshit gauge could only take so much before the glass shattered and suddenly... his ability to care became hampered. He became, politely stated, a self-serving, selfish bastard.

Sat there, chains rattling within inches of his wrists, rough wood perfumed with the reek of old fear-induced sweat, blood from desperate fingernails and hands trying to tear their way free... He could feel the breaking point approaching and passed a thought back to those nearest and dearest, a vain hope that they would forgive him for what was about to occur. His temper was flashpoint, but his patience... ahh, that was another story. His patience. He had always prided himself on his patience. His ability to accept and deal and adapt and make the best of the worst. But he could only stand so much. And when it reached that point...

In all honesty, he was surprised they couldn't hear the sound of his teeth grinding as he had to bite back the multitude of nasty retorts brewing under his tongue.

"It's not a question of how impressive the magic was," Fudge bit out testily as he glowered at Susan Bones's Aunt, the Head of the DMLE. "In fact, the more impressive the worse it is, I would have thought, given that the boy did it in plain view of a Muggle!" Yes, a Muggle fully aware of the magical world, but he was conveniently ignoring that tidbit.

Those who had been frowning throughout the trial took to muttering softly in agreement, creating a low, ominous drone in the background that only served to set Harry even further on edge with the hissing undertones and captured harsh intonations. He hated being unable to hear what was being said. Even the sight of Percy's sanctimonious little nod inflamed his temper, knob-gargling little shit.

"I did it because of the Dementors," he said loudly, before any more of the self-righteous little twazzocks could interrupt him once again. One would have thought for such venerable individuals raised in Pureblood society they would know a little fucking something about manners. But when you have persons of such good breeding like Lucius Malfoy running around with Death Eaters, murdering, torturing, raping, etc, etc, well... what could one expect from such a society if _that_ was considered the 'crème ala crème'.

He expected a derisive laugh, perhaps more muttering, but the sudden ringing silence that filled the room was somehow both ominous but also somewhat gratifying. Let them chew on that. Let them _choke_ on the idea that there are Dementors out of their control.

Or were they?

Were they really out of the Ministry's control? The seed of doubt began to grow even as Madam Bones eyed him sceptically.

"Dementors?" she echoed, "What do you mean, boy?"

' _My name is fucking_ _Harry_ _. Is it too much to ask for you to remember my damn name when you spend eighty percent of your time dragging it through the mud_?' he thought aggressively, but he didn't say it, no matter how much he wanted to.

"I mean there were two Dementors down that alleyway and they went for me and my cousin!" he snapped at the idiot woman. Did he fucking stutter?

"Ah," Fudge suddenly said silkily, an unpleasantly superior smirk decorating his face as he turned to look around at the Wizengamot, as though inviting them to share the joke. "Yes. Yes, I thought we'd be hearing something like this."

"Dementors in Little Whinging?" Bones continued as if he hadn't spoken. "I don't understand – "

"Don't you, Amelia?" Fudge asked her playfully, his eyes glittering with malicious triumph, still smirking. "Let me explain. He's been thinking it through and decided Dementors would make a very nice little cover story, very nice indeed. Muggles can't see Dementors, can they, boy? Highly convenient, highly convenient... so it's just your word and no witnesses..."

And that... was that.

Heat blossomed throughout Harry's body, the hard fluttery feeling in his stomach turned to lead and ice and his ears started ringing in rage. He felt the snap. Enough was enough. This was the breaking point.

The Broken Point.

His jaw worked soundlessly before he sighed slowly through his nose and got to his feet.

"You know what, Minister?" he asked, voice deceptively light. "Fuck you."

The sudden ringing silence was _not_ a little gratifying. It was _exceptionally_ gratifying as mouths opened in disbelief. Whatever anyone had been expecting, it had not been that declaration of contempt.

The Gryffindor sneered at him, whole body throbbing with rage, "Fuck you. Fuck the Ministry, Fuck _you_ ," he finished, looking directly at Dumbledore who was perhaps the most shocked of everyone there, the old man leaned back blinking in confusion and shock. Harry turned to the room at large, "Fuck all of you. I'm done. I am fucking _done_. You don't want to believe me that Voldemort is back? Fine. Go right a-fucking-head. But know this," he said, withdrawing a wand from his pocket. "I'm done. It's not my problem anymore. You deal with him."

Dumbledore blanched, "Harry, my boy, just what are you saying?" he spluttered in horror.

Gimlet green eyes slid down to pin him into his seat with icy contempt, "I'm saying that I wash my hands of Britain. Of the Ministry of Magic. Of you. Of Hogwarts. Of Voldemort. They don't want to believe that Voldemort is back even as his Death Eaters line their pockets with gold in order to look the other way – they are fucking _WELCOME_ to him!" he snarled before turning and pinning Fudge with a look of scathing revulsion and steely foreknowledge, "But then shit hits the fan and they can't deny it anymore... I'm not going to be there to clean up the fucking mess. They've made their bed. They can lie in it. They can fucking _wallow_ in it because I am not going to come back and deal with him for them. You created Voldemort. He's your problem, and yours alone."

No one moved fast enough to stop him as he brought one knee up and both hands down, a heart-stopping crack filling the room as he broke the wand over his knee and idly tossed the two halves to opposite ends of the room. He then looked up at one of the Wizengamot members, "See that, Rookwood? Go tell your half-blood son of a Squib master that I'm done. I'm not going to get between him and England. Open. Fucking. Season. He leaves me alone, and I'll leave him alone," he declared to the Death Eater.

And with that, he turned away from Dumbledore, who was too stunned to reach out and catch him before he was out of reach, and stalked to the door. He then paused when he got there and looked over at Fudge.

"Oh, and in case you conveniently 'forgot', my cousin is well aware of magic. So this whole court-case? ...Pointless," he explained flatly before slamming the door shut behind him.

He ignored Mrs Figg as she wrung her hands and shuffled anxiously, not noticing him in her distress and uneasiness at being in the Ministry of Magic as he stalked down the corridor toward the lifts.

Where to now? He wondered. As he stepped into the lift, he eyed the floor numbers before nodding to himself. He would make his mind up when he reached the Department of Magical Transportation. Once he'd decided where to go, he would call Dobby and ask the excitable elf to get his things from Grimmauld Place for him while he went off to places far away and free from the Ministry.

If they loved Voldemort so much, they could have him.

 _ **000**_

Harry grit his teeth furiously as he walked down the street to Number 12, Grimmauld Place. He had intended on getting a Portkey somewhere nice and sunny that had never heard of Voldemort, or the Dursleys, but apparently because he wasn't Of Age, he wasn't allowed to get a Ministry Sanctioned Portkey without parental consent. And as soon as she said that the woman at the supply counter seemed to realise who she was speaking to and winced. Points to her for standing her ground though. So, with no other option than to either wait around for Dumbledore or Mr Weasley to find him, Harry made a quick escape and walked back – leaving a Ministry of Magic that was still reeling.

He was not looking forward to dealing with everyone when he got in. All of them bleating like fucking sheep about how he couldn't do this, he couldn't just snap his wand and leave England. Fuck that.

He would go in, pack his things, and then leave. He would go to Gringotts, get his money out, convert it, and then leave the fucking muggle way if he had to. Anyone who tried to stop him had better pull a wand, because he wasn't going to listen to _anything_ those fucking enablers had to say.

Far from cooling his temper as he had hoped, the walk back from the Ministry had done nothing more than get him more and more wound up as he realised that five minutes and phial of Veritaserum would have solved EVERYTHING. _**ALL**_ of his life's biggest fuck ups and problems could have been averted or avoided entirely or resolved with three drops of that one potion and five minutes of the right questions.

Sirius would have never been in Azkaban. Peter would have been outed as the Spy. His parents may very well have been alive. He may have even been a big brother by this point. And even if it was inevitable, with Veritaserum and Sirius, he could have just moved into a huge fuck-off mansion with the Durlseys living in one wing, him and Sirius in another. They would never have to interact. They would still be calling the same place home. The bloodwards would still be active, still work. He would have just been raised with Sirius, never being starved or verbally abused or neglected. He would have known about magic and about how his parents died and he would have gone to Hogwarts with some idea of what to expect and how to keep his head above the tide.

 _ **Five**_ fucking minutes and _**three**_ drops of a Potion that Snape carried around in his top pocket in order to threaten students into telling him what he wanted to know.

Everything could have been resolved.

But no. No.

That's too much to ask when trying to prove that an evil Dark Lord was back and trying to murder everyone. Can't use that potion, we may not like what we have to hear. Can't even give Sirius Black a trial. Much too busy with our constant partying in the aftermath of Voldemort's death. Nope.

He growled as he wrenched the front door open, gearing up for a fight, half expecting to have Molly Weasley, Hermione, even Dumbledore himself bear down on him like an avalanche.

Only for the house to be utterly empty.

He stared in confusion at the dust motes he could see in the midday sunbeams struggling weakly through grotty windows half cleaned. No distant sound of Mrs Weasley clattering through the kitchen, no stomping of Ginny or the twins upstairs, not even the quiet murmur of the Order trying to discuss things they didn't want children to hear but had nowhere else to talk about it. Not even Kreacher could be heard.

He closed the door behind him. The sudden lack of target for his rage made his head throb painfully with a stress migraine.

He needed a drink. THEN he would go and pack and get the fuck out of the country.

Padding quietly down the hall, he roughly shouldered open the kitchen door and made sure it shut relatively quietly behind him, his migraine being what it was the last thing he needed was Mrs Black waking up and making his ears ble-

"Harry!" Sirius yelped, "B-they – The whole Order's out looking for you!" he exclaimed, jumping to his feet from where he had been sat with his head in his hands at the kitchen table.

Harry grunted, the pain was getting more than a little bit bothersome, "Keep your voice down, Padfoot," he croaked rubbing his head as he staggered to the sink.

"Harry! They said you'd run away!" the last Animagus Marauder shouted.

The younger Gryffindor recoiled from the noise in pain, "They weren't wrong. After I've packed my things I'm leaving. I've sworn on my magic that if they want to stick their heads in the sand and ignore the fact that Voldemort is back, they can have the bastard. I've washed my hands of it. I don't care anymore. I... I've run out of fucks to give," he stated coldly even as he stuck his head under the tap and greedily began to guzzle the refreshingly cold liquid that gushed out.

"But what about your _parents_? What on Earth would Lily and James think?" Sirius squawked.

"I DON'T FUCKING KNOW WHAT THEY WOULD THINK, SIRIUS, BECAUSE THEY'RE FUCKING DEAD!" the green eyed boy roared, whipping away from the sink in order to glare at him. "BUT ON THE WHOLE, GIVEN WHAT I HEAR EVERY TIME A FUCKING DEMENTOR POPS UP BEHIND ME, I'M GOING TO GO WITH THE IDEA THAT THEY WANTED ME TO LIVE LONG ENOUGH TO SEE MY TWENTIETH BIRTHDAY! AN EVENT I'M BEGINNING TO DOUBT IS EVER GOING TO HAPPEN IF DUMBLEDORE CONTINUES TO FUCK UP THE WAY HE HAS BEEN!"

Sirius recoiled away from his Godson as he advanced, eyes gleaming feverishly with anger and pain.

"VOLDEMORT ISN'T MY RESPONSIBILITY! I'M FIF-FUCKING-TEEN – ooh- " the dark haired Gryffindor groaned, his eyes crossing as his knees buckled.

"Harry!" Sirius yelped, rushing over even as the boy yelled in pain, gripping his head. He panicked as an odd purple kind of bubbling fire squeezed out from between his fingers, smelling like rancid meat and rotting fruits. "Harry, take your hand away! I need to see! Something's wrong with your scar, let me take a look!" he called in barely restrained panic as he pried the younger boy's hand away from his face.

That foul thing was bubbling. Red raw, bubbling and swelling as if something was trying to burst out-

Harry _screamed_ as his scar tore open, exploding in gore and violet fire.

Sirius flung himself backwards, shielding his face with his arms as the room was bathed in violet light, shattering all the windows, glasses, and porcelain, setting off all the Portraits in the house and several artefacts that began whirling and whistling and screaming. He squinted against the violet light as he turned back towards his godson, arms shielding his face as the young Gryffindor moaned and panted in pain, on his hands and knees, foul black oil pouring from his forehead in greasy steaming ribbons of goop that splattered thickly onto the tiled floor.

The violet light swirled into a solid ball at Harry's forehead, scorching the foul miasma into curling ash that vanished in the air, broken up and vaporised.

And then exploded up over Harry's head.

"Harry!" the last Black yelled in horror.

The violet flame scorched backwards from his forehead over his hair and face, engulfing his whole body and – sank into his skin...?

Sirius stared as it seemingly sucked itself back into Harry's body. His formerly black hair now stained a vivid shade of purple, perfectly matching the violet flame.

The kitchen fell silent, leaving only the shrieking of portraits and the resounding whistling and whirling of artefacts in other rooms. Just the sound of heavy panting coming from the now purple haired boy as he huddled on the floor in front of the bubbling ooze, vapour gently rising from the slick oily mess.

He scooted forward nervously, one hand inching toward his wand anxiously, "Harry?" he breathed hesitantly.

Vibrant eyes, violet, the same colour as his hair, looked up at him, not a speck of green in sight. And Sirius felt his heart clench in his chest.

"S-Sirius? Ugh, my head," he groaned, those alien eyes dropping as a shaking hand came up to delicately touch his forehead, and freeze at the slick feeling of foetid magic under his fingertips. "What happened?" he asked weakly as he pulled his hand away from his forehead, staring at the slick black and red ooze on his fingertips with a disturbed expression on his face.

"You tell me," the former Gryffindor croaked, hand pausing half way to his wand.

Harry shook his head, looking positively alien with the oddly floaty violet hair that now framed his pale face, to speak nothing of the jewel-bright amethyst coloured eyes. "Fudge was being a berk. So I told him to go and fuck himself. Snapped my wand and stormed out. Told them that they were welcome to Voldemort if that was what they wanted. Stormed back. I just... When I get angry enough, I just stop caring. Gives me one hell of a headache though. I figured this was just one of them. Normally I'd go somewhere dark and quiet and just... calm down but – I feel _so_ much better now. What happened? Why is my head bleeding and what is this _black_ stuff?" he demanded, roughly scrubbing his forehead with a sleeve, wiping the majority of the gunk off and causing more blood to dribble down his face.

Almost reflexively, a basic Healing Charm was out of Sirius's lips before he could stop himself, second hand wand flicking through the air. Harry sighed as the flesh on his face knitted back together and sealed over. He rubbed his face again, smearing blood and black ooze but for the most part getting the worst of it off. And then Sirius gaped.

"What?" Harry demanded sharply in worry.

"Y-Your scar..." the former Gryffindor gaped.

Frowning in confusion and anxiousness, Harry jumped to his feet, staggering only a little and made his way to the mirror hanging above the fireplace.

"WHAT THE HELL HAPPENED TO MY HAIR?" the formerly black haired boy yelped in shock, gripping the violet strands in shock, and no small amount of horror.

"Screw your hair, Harry, look at your Scar!" Sirius snapped, coming up behind him.

The younger Gryffindor spluttered in impotent confusion and horror before doing as he was told and squinting at his forehead. However, due to the gunk, there was nothing to be seen. Licking a clean segment of his shirt-sleeve, he mopped at his forehead, clearing away the smeared ooze and blood to get a better look at his scar which –

Was... Not... There...

He gaped unattractively, staring at his clear forehead. That...

Did that mean the black gunk was – Sirius yelped in shock as Harry suddenly wrenched his shirt off and overhead, throwing it away from himself so far it nearly hit the dog Animagus in the face before he was over at the sink and sticking his head under the still running tap, scrubbing furiously at his face and arms. Anywhere that stuff had touched.

"Sirius, burn that shirt! And the black stuff!" he ordered sharply as he turned the cold tap off and started running the hot one, grabbing a scouring pad and going to town on his forehead. He was not leaving a single speck of Voldemort's magic on his skin. The smell of burning filled the room and he knew the former Gryffindor had done as he asked.

"Harry?" Sirius questioned hesitantly as his godson finally took his head out from under the tap, his forehead red raw from scrubbing, but clean.

"Dumbledore always said that Voldemort may have left a piece of himself in my scar. It would hurt whenever he was near, or touched me, or got really angry. If whatever had just happened burned my scar off, then that black ooze was probably – "

"You Know Who's magic. Right. Good call on the burning thing," the dog Animagus praised, sounding horrified as he sat down in the nearest seat, staring at the black soot-stain on the tiled floor. Dabbing his sore skin with a tea-towel, Harry stared at his godfather.

"I'm sorry about shouting earlier," he said. He wasn't sorry about _what_ he shouted, only that he had shouted in the first place.

Sirius waved a hand, "No. You're right. You're only fifteen, You Know Who isn't your responsibility. He was never your responsibility. I've... I've let Lily and James down so much..." he dropped his head into his hands, digging his thin fingers into the tangled black mane. Harry sighed, tossing the tea-towel on the countertop.

"I can't exactly stay in England anymore. Since I've snapped my Wand and all, I'd be a sitting duck. Not to mention the abuse the general public would heap on me. Plus, you're still Wanted," he pointed out dully.

Sirius suddenly inhaled and sat upright, "Then we leave. Go somewhere else. I should have done this years ago. I should have just taken you and left that night I saw you running away from those muggles. I knew that look. It was the same one I wore when I ran away from here. Go pack your things. I'll seal the house temporarily, everyone in the Order is out scouring London looking for you right now so they won't be coming back any time soon, but better to be safe than sorry. I'll leave them a note or something about what we intend to do. Kreacher! Kreacher, damnit, get your damnable backside in here!" he roared sharply.

Almost mutinously, the elderly House Elf cracked into existence in front of him, "What does filthy Mast- YOU!" he suddenly howled, pointing a gnarled finger at Harry, eyes boggling.

Sirius snarled, "Put that finger away, Elf, and pay attention!" he snarled, the enchantments that governed Kreacher forcing him to obey the order but that didn't stop him from sneaking stunned glances every now and again at Harry from the corner of his eye. "Fetch everything that belongs to Harry, and I mean _everything_ Kreacher. Everything that has even a smidgeon of his Magical Signature and set it into his room immediately. Do not take anything out of his room afterwards, and do not take anything out of his room before you start putting things in. You aren't allowed to contact anyone, or stop anywhere to talk to anyone either, and you are not to be seen by anyone that isn't Harry, or myself. Am I clear?" Sirius growled with narrowed eyes. Harry forcing himself not to wince in unpleasant remembrance at the very familiar tone and wording that he would often receive from Uncle Vernon.

"Kreacher understands Unworthy Master's commands and will do as Kreacher is told. Kreacher is a loyal elf of the Black Family's _noble_ bloodline," he added with a _Look_ in Harry's direction that was hard to decipher. He then cracked away, leaving Harry and Sirius alone in the kitchen.

"I suppose we shouldn't tell them where we're planning on going. Otherwise they'll waste valuable time trying to track us down instead of fighting You Know Who," Sirius murmured as he dug around for a quill and parchment.

Harry hummed, rubbing his arms and frowning, "I should probably issue a statement to the Daily Prophet as well. That way the Ministry can't twist what happened today for their own ends."

"Good idea. Here, you should probably write it first. Fudge moves pretty fast when he smells something that'll boost his career," the dog Animagus explained as he handed the younger boy the writing equipment, "I'll go lock the house down," he said before leaving the kitchen. He seemed strangely cheerful, Harry decided, he didn't even stop to have a screaming match with his mother as he passed. Something Harry had not yet seen him pass up.

Sitting down at the kitchen table, he penned a quick letter.

 _To Whom It May Concern,  
As of eleven O'clock today, I, Harry James Potter, have snapped  
my Wand and left England. If you wish to stick your heads in the  
sand and ignore the words of myself and Albus Dumbledore, be  
my Guest.  
I have washed my hands of you.  
I will not be your hero.  
I will not fight for you.  
I have even vowed upon this, as long as I am left alone, I shall  
not lift a finger to defend Britain or its peoples. Open season as far  
as I am concerned. I will not be here anymore. I will not save you  
anymore.  
To all muggleborns, there is an entire world out there. Magic isn't  
solely the privilege of the British. I suggest leaving. _

_To the rest of you, I hope you are prepared for what is coming.  
You're on your own now.  
Just remember: You brought it on yourselves._

 _Sincerely,  
Harry Potter  
The Boy Who Had Enough_

 _ **000**_

Finding a way to word the majority of his letter was difficult, if he made it obviously Anti-Ministry, they would never print it, if he made any overt reference to Voldemort, they would refuse to Print it and then mock him. Well, they would mock him anyway, but anyone with a modicum of doubt in the establishment would undoubtedly start feeling a little nervous. He also made a second letter, this one to Professor McGonagall, withdrawing himself from Hogwarts on the grounds that he felt he was not safe within her halls, also, he snapped his wand. He was no longer eligible to learn within her prestigious Halls.

"Now... How to deliver these without – um," he paused, an idea suddenly coming to him but... ahhh, he didn't know, would it be alright? Would it work? Well, he _was_ alone in the room... no one could really make fun of him if it failed. "Dobby, do you have a spare moment?" he asked to the ceiling.

He didn't really expect anything to happen, but suddenly there was a crack, and the maniacal House Elf appeared looking positively ecstatic to see him, "Harry Potter Sirs be calling Dobby?" he chirped happily.

"Err, yeah. Do you think you could give this letter to Professor McGonagall, and this one to the Editor of the Daily Prophet?" he requested, holding the two of them out.

Dobby nodded so rapidly his ears flapped, "Of course Harry Potter sir! Dobby will, sir!" he exclaimed, taking the letters and cracking away immediately.

Harry sighed, well, he had withdrawn himself from Hogwarts, and now told the whole of England that he was leaving the country as well. He had best get to packing. He and Sirius had perhaps until seven O'clock until the Order returned from their fruitless search and found the house on lockdown. And not long after that would be the evening edition of the Daily Prophet and people would know he'd ditched out of the country. He rubbed his head as he left the kitchen and winced when he realised no one had attempted to shut Lady Black up. She was still screeching away in the hallway like a banshee.

A banshee who gagged at the sight of him, her eyes bulging out of their painted sockets as she got a good look at his purple-violet hair, "You – _YOU_!" she screeched, her face purpling to Uncle Vernon levels, her eyes locked with feral intensity on his hair. "HOW _DARE_ YOU! FILTH OF THE LINE! THIEF SON OF A CHEAP WHORE!" she screeched, frothing at the mouth.

Harry stopped.

There was a peculiar ringing in his ears, he noted idly as he stared at the portrait, uncertain of the feeling that was suddenly so cold and hot and sickening as it shuddered through him, setting every hair on end as he drew a hand back.

The portrait screeched even louder, her words incomprehensible as Harry finally identified the emotion he felt as his fist – engulfed with violet flame – impacted against the canvas of her portrait.

Rage.

Sheer, unadulterated, uncompromising, rage.

No one insulted Lily Potter in front of him. No one.

Malfoy made that mistake once. He didn't do it again.

Snape never even attempted to.

The portrait exploded, taking a solid chunk out of the wall behind it and all Harry did was claw his hand and rip the remaining canvas and wooden framing _off_ the wall and throw it aside.

"MISTRESS!" Kreacher howled, barrelling down the stairs to the broken portrait.

Harry turned and went up the stairs, leaving Kreacher to his noisy mourning, feeling oddly numb as he finally reached his bedroom and pushed it open, staring in mixed emotions at the collection of things that were currently piled haphazardly throughout the room. Several of these things most definitely weren't his. But apparently they held his magical signature, otherwise Kreacher wouldn't have taken them – he wasn't like Dobby who would pick things up that may or may not come in handy, he would follow the letter of his orders, not the spirit.

But the assorted piles of junk in his room wasn't what took his attention. It was the length of holly that was sat, nice and neat, on his bedside table. Almost in a daze, he walked across the room and picked it up, feeling the familiar rush of warmth through his fingertips and stared.

This was his wand.

Had Kreacher managed to repair it? No, he wouldn't even have bothered. So what... One of Fred and George's fakes? But surely it would have turned into a rubber chicken or something as soon as he touched it, right? Surely the wand check at the Ministry would have shown it as a fake, right?

Confused, but relieved, he tucked the length of wood into his back pocket before turning to the rest of the junk in his room. Well, he'd best start sorting it before anything else. But first, T-shirt. He was getting cold.

Things he definitely knew were his he placed on his bed next to his trunk, ready to be sorted into what he wanted to keep, and what he wanted to leave behind. Trunks and boxes that weren't his got set to one corner, books into another. Thankfully that seemed to be the majority of the things, trunks and books, with the exception of a small silver device he had only ever seen in Uncle Vernon's office that one time he was forced to go into Grunnings along with him.

A rolodex.

It caught his attention simply by being the only muggle object that didn't belong to him that was in the room, and he knew it wasn't Ron's or belonging to any of the Weasleys – it was made of solid silver and engraved with fancy runes. And it didn't belong to Sirius, otherwise he would have noticed it in the room before now – and Dung would have had it away in a heartbeat.

He sat on the floor and shook it a little, there was definitely something in it, a lot of somethings actually from the sound of it.

Popping the clasp, he edged the top of it open and stared in surprise. Phials. Almost like those perfume testers that Aunt Petunia would get for free at John Lewis but half the size, all of them set in an odd series of hanging racks. He pulled one out and held it up to the light, blinking at the odd liquid inside. Glowing white, looking a little like wisps from a patronus it seemed to be emanating from a hair. White as snow and glowing with misty inner light.

Was it a potion?

Humming thoughtfully, he stowed the phial back in place and closed the rolodex up again, he would bring it to Sirius later, once he had sorted through everything else in the room.

He dragged one of the unknown trunks to the middle of the room and popped it open, time to get started.

 _ **000**_

 **Many thanks to Reighost for allowing me the use of her plot-devices, for being my sounding board, and motivational poker (if not for her, this story would not have been written). XDDD**

 **You guys have no idea how long this has been sat on my PC waiting to be published. I created it back in December... 2014. I didn't want to publish it until I had a sizable amount of buffer chapters, and while I don't have as many as I would have liked – I couldn't wait to update anymore. I had to update.**

 **So here we are. I updated. Hope you've enjoyed it.**


	2. Chapter 2

**Drifting Cloud**

 _ **000**_

 _After telling the magical world to go fuck themselves, Harry leaves, and declares his refusal to fight Voldemort for them. They're on their own as he rediscovers the forgotten Black Legacy and steps into a brand new world._

 **KHR/HP, mild Old Kingdom, Kingdom Hearts, , and Ocean's 11 crossovers.**

 **Slash**

 _ **000**_

 **CHAPTER TWO**

Sirius slammed his trunk lid down with a self-satisfied nod, all packed, everything of importance was stowed away. All he needed now was his beloved bike, when they finally got out of the country he would finally be able to ride it in public after submitting himself for Veritaserum questioning (A legal requirement of any Magical nation in the MEN – Magical European Nations – of which only England, Belgium, France, Bulgaria, Finland, and Latvia had opted out of. All countries which they would not be going to if he had anything to say about it). He could even teach Harry how to ride. If the boy was that good on a broom, he would definitely take to the bike (when Sirius showed him how to operate the flying charms).

Shrinking the trunk down, he stowed it in his pocket and bade his room goodbye for the final time (again), and left. Closing the door with a firm snap and twisting the knob twice to the left, engaging the locking charms that had been built into his door – only the Master of the House could disengage them, and he didn't particularly feel like coming back to be perfectly honest.

The last thing he expected to see as he came down the stairs was his mother's portrait, inanimate, trashed, and strewn across the floor, gently smouldering with violet fire as Kreacher frantically tried to put it out, absolutely beside himself, sobbing and wailing about his 'Poor Mistress'.

What had Harry _Done?!_

And why hadn't he let Sirius _watch?!_

Leaving the elf to his business, Sirius hurried back up the stairs to find Harry and ask him how he did it. He burst into the room he had been sharing with Ron and tripped over an empty trunk, falling flat on his face in a pile of lurid robes that looked like a Streeler had vomited all over them.

"Harry – what - " he spluttered, struggling up as he dragged a set of vivid cerise robes from his face, staring agog at his still violet haired godson sat in the middle of a bomb-site.

The Gryffindor shrugged helplessly, "Kreacher brought some extra stuff and, well, they had to have been mine, right? They had my magical signature. That was what you told him to get," he explained utterly bewildered as he dropped the set of handsome sepia and gold robes he had been folding into a smaller pile of equally neatly folded robes and shirts at one side. Sirius scanned the room. All of Harry's personal stuff was on the bed, there were three trunks that he couldn't identify, a Gringott's Lockbox, and a Penseive Phial catalogue. Harry had already gutted the three trunks, the books set to one side, personal objects and underwear in another, serviceable robes were folded and put to one side and the undesirable ones thrown into one of the empty trunks – the one that Sirius had tripped over and ended up making a mess of. Was that a Nimbus 2001?

Sirius stared at the assorted junk, "Who does this stuff belong to?" he squawked.

Harry sighed, "Professor Quirrel," he said, pointing to the trunk that Sirius had tripped over, it was rather standard hard leather with brass fixtures, "He was my First Year Defence Against the Dark Arts professor, he had Voldemort sticking out from the back of his head. He kind of... crumbled... to death when I grabbed his face." He pointed at a nicely burnished black trunk with silver fastenings, "Draco Malfoy's. He's a Slytherin student in my year. Honestly, I have no idea why it's here. And that one belongs to Gileroy Lockhart, our Second Year Defence Professor who tried to Memory Charm both Ron and I with a broken wand. It backfired and now he's in St Mungos."

Sirius nodded, "Well, that explains it. Right of Conquest. It's an old magic designed to reward a wronged party in an attack. Basically, because your two Professors had a duty to protect and Guide you, and then consciously decided to try and do harm, and then lost in a straight up fight, both of you in possession of wands, either through their own stupidity or your actions, their possessions become yours by Right of Conquest. You've Conquered them, ergo, you're superior to them in a big way since you're not only younger but you're also magically inferior. As for Malfoy's brat... That is weird. Did he ever challenge you to a Duel or something?" he asked curiously, getting to his feet and kicking aside the unsightly cerise robes.

Harry shook his head and then paused, "No wait, he did. In our First Year. But he never showed."

The former Gryffindor nodded with a grin, "There we go. He challenged you to a Duel, both of you accepted and you even showed up. But he didn't. Meaning he Forfeit his Challenge to you and you won by Default. His stuff belongs to you now until you decided to claim it."

"But he didn't own half this stuff when he Defaulted!" Harry pointed out.

"Doesn't matter. The Default only becomes Valid when you claim it. It's a one time only thing though. Basically, if you'd waited until he was filthy rich and famous to claim, you would have taken the lot. Magic's way of slapping cowards and liars in the face," he explained with a broad chin. "That only works on Defaulted Duels though. Right of Conquest typically only applies to possessions at the time of Conquest. It was a pretty big scandal back when Septimus Weasley Defaulted on a Duel. Apparently he wanted to marry the favourite cousin of Drago Malfoy, so Drago challenged him to a Duel. The girl in question begged Septimus not to go as it was a Duel to the death and she loved the both of them. So he didn't. Drago waited until Septimus became the Head of the Weasley Family and claimed the Default, the whole family fortune lost. And then Drago used a clause in the marriage arrangements to nullify their nuptials and then remarry his cousin to a man of his choosing. So, in short, he completely destroyed the Weasley Clan. That's why there's such bad blood between them."

"Ouch," Harry commented, wincing in sympathetic pain.

Sirius nodded, "Yup. Long story short, don't Default on a Duel, ever. I guess the Malfoy-Brat was gambling on the fact that you didn't know about Defaults. That or he never had any Duelling Instruction."

Harry shrugged. Malfoy had never actually won any of their fights, not that it devolved into throwing Curses very often, if he was perfectly honest, he never felt the little worm's insults worth the detentions he would suffer if he got caught. It just wasn't worth the hassle.

"Oh yeah!" He crawled to the near-by table and picked up the silver rolodex, "What's this? There's a lot of little potions inside but they're all the same kind," he explained holding it out to the older man.

"Ahh, you've never seen these before I imagine. They're memories. This is a Penseive Phial Catalogue," he explained, cracking it open as he sat on the bed. "All these little phials have a memory stored in them, they're often used by Aurors," he explained, lifting one of them out to show him the tiny strand. He then frowned and put it back, looking at Harry. "Which begs the question, why does this rolodex have your magical signature if you've never seen it, nor even know what it is?" he asked grimly.

Harry sat back, "Maybe it has some of my memories in there?" he hazarded a guess.

Sirius pursed his lips, " _Accio Penseive_ ," he commanded, flicking his wand from his back pocket, "Let's find out," he growled unhappily as a marble bowl floated into the room.

"Maybe we should focus on leaving the country first. We can figure out whether they're mine or not later," Harry said getting to his feet.

"Well, I'm glad one of you has a concept of discretion," a sudden voice behind them declared, taking the both of them by surprise. The pair whirled around and stared at the portrait that had just spoken.

Sirius was quite _certain_ he had never seen this one before, there was absolutely no way he wouldn't have paid him special attention with an outfit like that. Harry meanwhile was staring at his hair. His vivid purple-violet hair the exact same shade as his own. The man smirked, lounging in the frame as the original occupant scowled unhappily in the background but didn't _dare_ kick up a stink. It looked almost scared. "Tell me, lad, are you feeling tired yet?" he asked with interest, leaning forward and pinning Harry in place with a painted purple stare. Familiar jewel-bright amethyst eyes staring at him with interest from the portrait.

He shook his head mutely.

The man grinned, "How positively delightful! Ah, yes, do forgive my manners. I am Bonaventura Fiorenzo Gasparo Mouzey Noir, also more commonly known as Felis Black," he greeted, whisking his hat off and giving them perhaps the most pompous bow either had ever seen – and yet he pulled it off with such a great deal of panache that it looked pretty good. "May I have the pleasure of knowing whom I am conversing with?" he asked pointedly.

"Ah, Sirius Black."

"Harry Potter."

Mouzey eyed the pair of them again and smirked, shielding his eyes from the two with the brim of his hat, "Ahhh, the education of the younger generation is sorely lacking," he lamented idly before snickering, "Oh well, I'm sure we can discuss that at a later time. For right now, you have the expression of a man being hunted, no? Yes, I'm quite familiar with that look," he said, tilting his hat up to grin at Harry, "I have worn it more than a few times myself. You, Black, what do you know of the family history?" he suddenly demanded, looking over to Sirius who spluttered in confusion. "Chop, chop, I don't have all day. What do you know about the Black Family's origins?" he demanded coolly.

"Ah, we – we're Pureblooded, one of the largest and wealthiest families in British Magical History dating back as far as the middle ages," he offered awkwardly. They were one of the Sacred Twenty Eight, but that was only a recent development with current Pureblood society as one of the only twenty eight families that have managed to remain Pureblooded into the twentieth century.

Mouzey snorted in disgust, "I see that the Banshee my little Heir disposed of truly was as despicable as I feared. No, boy, that is not the origin of the Black Family." He smirked as he glanced to the other occupant of the portrait, who blanched and scowled unhappily, Mouzey laughed, "Go the sub-basements. Yes, we have a sub-basement. Every Black property bought before the eighteen hundreds has a sub-basement. My wife will open the way for you. There will be a table of Portkeys to select properties throughout the world where my line has... done business." He chuckled to himself. "Take the Sky Key, it will take you to my home in Italy. It should still be serviceable if the charms haven't eroded. I will explain in further detail to you there. Don't leave anything behind, I have every intention of sealing the mansion entirely."

"B-but the Order need it!" Harry spluttered.

Mouzey scoffed, "Tell me that after you have taken a look at that Penseive Catalogue. I have never liked what I've heard about that Dumbledore character. I will not have him in my house, any of them," the violet haired man told them severely. "Now, go take your Portkey and leave this miserable grey little island. Italy should be lovely and sunny this time of year. Bake the cold from your bones, boy," he added, looking at Sirius with such an expression of delicate revulsion that it took him a moment to realise what was insinuated and flush something horrible. He... yeah, he hadn't been taking very good care of himself since Azkaban. It just – it was hard, to do those silly inconsequential things.

"Oh, and do something about the tracers on your belongings before you go. I would hate to see your grand-escape plan thwarted due to something as stupid as a tracking charm," the painting pointed out as he swanned off out of his frame to who knew where. "Oh, and Phineas," he suddenly appeared again, speaking to the man in the portrait, "We won't be speaking of this to anyone, _will we_?" he asked.

The man in the portrait went a little green, "You know I am obligated to - "

"He has withdrawn. Sent an elf with his official letter this morning. He isn't a student any longer. You are _obligated_ to do as I tell you. And I am telling you, you won't be speaking to anyone _any_ of this. Understand?" he asked sweetly.

It was almost worrying how the other portrait of a considerably older man went white and nodded meekly in front of the young man with the purple hair.

Sirius shook his head, unable to articulate anything as he flicked his wand in a complicated pattern, and then flicked it again at the room, packing all of Harry's things, shrinking them into his trunk along with the silver rolodex and Gringotts lockbox. Draco Malfoy's trunk was shrunk and added to the contents along with the pile of books and folded robes and other personal knick-knacks that may or may not come in handy.

"What do I do about Hedwig?" Harry asked anxiously, looking up at his godfather, "She isn't back from hunting yet."

"She's a smart owl, she'll find us. Just be prepared to grovel, and have bacon," Sirius told him plainly as he shrank Harry's trunk and tucked it into his pocket along with his own. Hedwig liked bacon, right? He wondered inanely as he kicked aside Lockhart's awful robes and tugged Harry downstairs, now noticing the sudden abundance of new people meandering through the Portraits and terrifying the occupants. More than a few of them had the same Amethyst coloured hair as Harry. A few of them had red and green, one or two with blue though they seemed to be perpetually cheerful. There was even a lone individual with orange hair, and another with golden yellow – though the others steered clear of that one with noticeable unease, even the new people.

Several of them spotted them as they made their way through the corridors and started applauding and smiling. This was getting ridiculous. What did his Godson suddenly becoming a Metamorphmagus have to do with them? He was a Half-blood Black, it was hardly unusual. Tonks was the first Half-blood Black in eight generations and she had the talent. Harry had Black Blood. Both he and James had spoken at length about how awesome it would be, even laughingly saying that maybe Sirius should father a child with Lily to see if it happened, enter into a polygamous marriage as it was clear that no other woman would put up with him. But Lily would kill them _both_ if either ever thought to bring it up.

"Oh, aren't you _adorable_!" a sudden female voice gushed when they reached the ground floor, "Let me get a look at you, dear! Yes, sweetheart, you with the violet hair. Oh, aren't you handsome?" she continued to coo lovingly as the two came off the stairs.

She was a tall woman, classical Black features, long silky dark hair and eyes, beautiful aristocratic features, however, she possessed a smile so reminiscent of Molly Weasley it made her look positively alien, especially when it showed off the dimples that pinched on her cheeks. She wore _very_ old fashioned robes, a good four-hundred years out of date, from the early 1600's in lurid shades of purple and trimmed in black lace and an abundance of ruffles and layers. If Sirius recalled correctly, that was the fashion of the time, the more layers and ruffles you could afford in your outfit, the wealthier you were and the more you could show off. Plus, purple was... a stupidly expensive colour usually restricted only to royalty and the highest of nobles.

"Oh, you look so much like him," she cooed, trying to reach out through the canvas to pet Harry's hair. "Come along now, dears, already someone has tried to access the house through the Floo. We had best see you off with all haste," she said swiftly as she turned in her frame and marched through the assorted frames, gesturing at them to follow her. "Hurry up, boys!" she called as they reached the kitchen, she was waiting for them at a portrait frame that had always been empty for as long as Sirius could remember, it was just a simple landscape, Dumbledore's charmwork told them that it was locked, no one in or out. "Now, the knotwork on the fireplace, look for the third rose up on the left, yes, that one. Give it a firm push in, and twist it to the right three jolts. There we go. And another five to the left... Excellent, now stand back, sweetheart and pull the candle holder on the otherside of the fireplace. It'll open the passageway into the sub-basements."

Hesitantly, Sirius did so and jerked as the fireplace groaned and twisted, spinning in place and opening sideways, revealing a dusty abandoned Secret Passageway and a staircase going down.

"How – why - " the Azkaban escapee spluttered.

"My husband and I will explain when you get to Italy. Long story short for right now though is that little toerag of a grandson liked to pretend above his station and sealed us away, along with all of our secrets. Now hurry up! Another ward has just gone off!" the woman exclaimed, ushering them inside. The second that the two of them had ducked in and gone down the stairs, the fireplace swivelled back into place and the woman was in the portraits beside them. "Just through here. Now, the Sky Key will be the orange one with seven prongs, the pass phrase is _'Spirito Ombra',_ it will take you to our home in Southern Italy on the water-front. I promise we will explain everything there but – oh goodness, that man! Not a modicum of etiquette within him! Using his blasted Phoenix ward-breaker to get into someone else's home. You two hurry on now, I need to round up the rest of the family before they're found!" she told them before gathering up her skirts and actually running – she was pretty fast too and out of sight in a few seconds.

Leaving the two Gryffindors to exchange glances, chew through what she just said, realise Dumbledore used Fawkes to get into the house, and go sprinting for the Portkey room she pointed out.

It looked like a plain storage room with shelves in total honesty, but the shelves were covered in purple velvet and large ten inch long keys were laid down on the fabric, gleaming dully in the – lights?

Harry looked up in confusion, how could there be light in the basement without torches or candles? Well, as he looked up, he learned that Runes could be used for more than writing dead languages. On the ceiling was a circle of runes around a larger rune that was giving off a bright, clean, white light.

"Harry, hurry up," Sirius told him, holding the orange key out.

Blinking, Harry quickly reached out and grasped it tightly, taking a deep breath and steeling himself.

Sirius swallowed hard, and tapped it with his wand, "Spirito Ombra."

 _ **000**_

They vomited immediately upon arrival and then, embarrassingly enough, landed in said vomit as they flung the medieval Portkey away.

"Oh god! International Portkey over four-hundred years old, _bad idea_ ," Sirius groaned as he rolled out of the puddle of noxious vomit with a grimace. Harry whimpered. He took Portkeys badly at the best of times but holy _fuck_ if they were that bad so long ago he would consider the current day torture devices a blessing. No wonder everyone preferred Brooms and Apparating and Carpets and what have you.

"Oh good, you arrived and – eurgh!" it was Mouzey, a look of utter revulsion on his handsome face as he took a look at the vomit covered pair, "Don't lay in it! Good god!" he yelped in disgust pointing at Harry who had yet to push himself from the disgusting puddle. He received a rude hand gesture from the boy who's vision had yet to stop spinning. The problem with older Portkeys was that the spellwork was very rough. Over the last two hundred years, great advances had been made to refine the transportation spells – what with the invention of the Floo network actually providing a lot of research information to improve Portkeys. So, the modern Portkey was about fifty times more comfortable than its ancestor, the first invented Portkey. Its creator unknown, potentially wiped from History.

"Oh, dear, do give them a minute. The poor thing took the trip badly," it was the Lady they had spoken with earlier, her face filled with sympathy. "Don't you worry dear. No one in the London House will breathe a word of your where-abouts or activities to that meddling old man. I've had words with them. Now, you two just get your bearings, those Portkeys are awful things, aren't they?" she continued to speak soothingly, not even glancing at Mouzey as the purple haired man wrapped his arms around her waist and rested his head upon her shoulder, his expression still disgusted as he looked down at them. He didn't dare say a word though. Not with the Lady present. "-why, our firstborn could hardly handle the wretched things either. Much preferred Apparation and the good old muggle way of things. Which is all well and good but I do wish the modern advancements in Broom Manufacturing were available back then. I just know he would have loved it. He complained so often and at such length over poor Broomstick quality, it drove his poor father up the wall," she rambled as Harry slowly got himself back together and sat up, still feeling... delicate, for lack of a better word.

"Oh now don't you two fuss about that mess. Up the stairs with you. A nice hot bath will set the both of you to rights. We'll have Kreacher do the clean up, have no worries. Off with you two boys, chop chop!" the Lady continued, slipping out of her husband's hold to usher them out of the room they had landed in. Harry was too queasy to make much notice of it as he followed the Lady's direction up a flight of stairs and stumbled his way down a corridor and into a bathroom, Sirius staggering in his wake. "Now, you two get cleaned up, have a good long hot soak and get yourselves sorted. Food will be on the table when you're ready, and everything will be explained then. I don't think it'd do either of you much good to have it all done right now," she told them briskly with a mothering smile before sweeping out of the portrait and away.

Leaving the two of them to blearily strip – paying not a lick of attention or care to the other's nudity (they had both been in the Gryffindor dormitories, really, if they had a scrap of modesty left it would have been considered unusual). And ran the bath while dropping their soiled robes into a hamper – Sirius making certain to take their trunks out and set them on the small shelf beneath the mirror first. They would need those to get clean clothes after their bath.

"And you had best clean up well, gentlemen," Mouzey suddenly interrupted, looking down on the pair of them from the portrait, "You will be dining with a Lady. Dress as such," he declared, giving Sirius a dismissive look, his upper lip curling slightly with disdain.

Sirius visibly bristled and Mouzey left just as the Dog Animagus reached for a bar of soap to throw at him. Harry ignored the growling complaints as he gracelessly climbed into the large bathtub – it was rather a lot like the Prefect's bathroom, a huge communal bathtub against one wall with multiple taps, against the other wall were a series of shower heads, and closer to the door was a large mirror with a short shelf under it (about six inches wide), and a long sink with multiple taps under that. No toilet though. They must have had that in a separate room.

Harry languished in the tub, letting the hot water ease away all the discomfort and cold that had settled into his bones from his earlier actions. Gods he was tired. So much had happened to day. The Hearing, his Leaving, the odd violet explosion and removal of his scar, killing Mrs Black's portrait, the Trunks, and now this – an international escape into a strange country and a strange house owned by even stranger portraits who were entirely too interested in him. The chance to actually sit, and let all of it sink in, along with the warmth and the scent of the bubble-bath, he felt... strangely detached from it all. As if it were happening to someone else.

Was this shock?

Sirius was scrubbing at himself with angry mutters as he practically stuck his head under one of the taps in order to really work out the filth and grease from his hair. Harry doubted he had given himself anything even approaching a proper scrub and brush-up since... since before Azkaban. Oh a bath or a shower, definitely, but not a proper clean up session. And especially not recently. (He hadn't wanted to say anything, but Sirius had been getting a little whiffy lately.)

The younger of the pair just languished, enjoying the heat, while Sirius cursed and went hunting for cleaning products – in the end, opening up Harry's trunk to get at Lockhart's left-over beauty potions that Harry hadn't gotten around to sorting and throwing out (who knew when a hair changing potion would be useful when on the run).

"Damn, this is good quality stuff," the Dog Animagus observed as he set the multitude of bottles on the edge of the tub, "Was Lockhart gay? Some of this stuff you can only get at certain places and they don't just let _any_ one in. Gotta have the right look to you," he explained.

Harry rolled his head to one side in order to get a better look, "Dunno. Might explain a bit though," he murmured bonelessly.

Sirius shrugged and returned to the bathtub in order to finish cleaning up and Harry sluggishly roused himself enough to grab a cloth and start scrubbing himself off. Sirius seemed to be having a grand time with Lockhart's potions, using them copiously on his hair which was now no longer looking quite so ' _Azkaban escapee_ '. The smell of lavender and heather filled the bathroom while Harry ducked his head under a tap and grabbed the bar of soap to wash his hair – Sirius's yelp of horror making him slip and go under the water-line and surface, spluttering and groping for his wand.

"You can't wash your hair with soap!" the Pureblood exclaimed.

Harry coughed and pushed hair from his eyes, staring at his godfather. The man had nearly killed him just because – "What's the problem? I've always done it like this," he grumbled. As if Petunia or Vernon would waste money letting him use _actual_ haircare products on the mop he called hair.

Sirius gaped, "You – no _wonder_ your hair is so awful!" he spluttered before reaching over and dragging Harry closer, shoving a bottle into his chest. "Here, use this first. One squirt should be enough. Actually, no, give it here, I'll do it!" he decided, snatching it back and squirting a large dollop of the cream coloured potion into his hands and then slapping it down onto Harry's head.

"Ack! Sirius!"

"Hold still! I need to work this in properly," the Dog Animagus growled, holding Harry's shoulder with one hand while the other roughly rubbed his hair, working the potion into a thick lather of pink bubbles that sparkled. Harry squirmed but the grip on his shoulder was unrelenting. He gave up.

Using both hands now, Sirius continued to work the potion into his hair, it wasn't until the pink bubbles started to sparkle blue that he directed his godson to rinse his hair out before forcing him to sit through another head-rubbing session – not that he complained this time, the head massage was lovely. That done, Sirius proclaimed his hair finished with and handed him another two bottles with which to wash with.

"This is a hair-removing potion, very mild. Only rub it on your skin where you don't want body hair. This is a general washing potion, and this is a skin enhancer, makes it softer, nicer smelling, and more, ahh, what's the word? ...luminous?" he asked before shrugging.

Harry grimaced a little and used the washing potion on his cloth to finish cleaning up, Sirius was rubbing the hair remover on his cheeks and chin, dabbing a little bit between his eyebrows. Harry ignored him. He seemed to have taken Mouzey's contemptuous glances as a personal offence and was now endeavouring to groom himself into model-like perfection. Harry didn't think he would get there tonight, he would need a lot of good meals after Azkaban and the aid of more than just a handful of cosmetic potions stolen from some blond fop.

He rinsed off quickly and climbed out, leaving Sirius to continue his fussing with potions as he dried off and dug through his trunk in search of his dress robes – since they were supposed to be going formal tonight, they were the best he had to offer. He dressed quickly and dragged them on before escaping out of the bathroom.

Outside, Mouzey was smirking as he leaned against his portrait frame, "Well, don't you clean up nicely, little Cloudling," he greeted, his smirk softening into something that was a lot gentler. "Is he still in there, fussing?" he asked, that soft look dissolving into a malicious grin. Harry nodded and Mouzey chuckled, "Excellent. He's the type to require a little prodding when it comes to taking care of himself, at least right now," he explained, catching sight of Harry's disapproving glance. The purple haired man gestured at him to follow and the two of them returned downstairs.

Now that he wasn't dizzy, queasy, and otherwise distracted, he finally had a chance to observe his surroundings, and found himself more than a little surprised.

The building was _nothing_ like Grimmauld Place. There were no dark-wood furnishings, no narrow hall-ways laden with tapestries or portraits, cracking paint or peeling wall paper or suspicious stains upon the ceiling or floor. It was quite airy and light in all honesty. The floorboards didn't squeak underfoot as he stepped over them, the walls were painted a pale jade green, warm walnut coloured wooden tables perched here and there with empty flower vases set artistically upon them, two portraits framing it – their occupants absent. There were large portraits set opposite doors, but again, they were empty – save for the moment when Mouzey passed through them.

"For the most part, my wife and immediate children are the only individuals with access to this building, the other's do not have portraits here," Mouzey explained, "the multitude of empty frames are merely for ease of movement." Harry said nothing, compared to Hogwarts or Grimmauld Place, this place was suspiciously devoid of portraits.

They reached the foyer where there was a set of white painted stairs leading to the bottom floor and a landing that lead to a door on the opposite side, downstairs was a marble floor and a handsome wooden door framed in stain-glass motifs. The walls were that same pale jade colour and featured more walnut tables with flower-vases on them. And at the foot of the stair was... a Troll leg umbrella stand.

Harry stared at it.

Mouzey started to laugh, "Ah yes, the Troll sculptures. Yes, I imagine you would recognise it. The other one is in Grimmauld Place. They were thought to be quite the work of art at the time," he explained, eyes sparkling mischievously.

"If... If they're such works of art, why are you using them as umbrella stands?" Harry asked weakly.

"Why not?" Mouzey countered mirthfully before moving out of his current frame and to one at the bottom of the stairs, gesturing at him to hurry up. Deciding he would get no more answers out of the portrait, Harry carefully made his way down the stairs, just in case any of them were broken or rotted through.

Mouzey led him into a grand-dining room, the floor was varnished and polished to a fine sheen, displaying a wooden marquetry design of the night sky constellations. Huge white framed windows that stretched from floor to ceiling were framed with heavy sapphire blue velvet drapes, in the middle of the room was a large long table covered with a white table-cloth, crystal goblets, white porcelain dishes, silver knives and forks with blue and purple enamel embellishments, there were two places set on one side of the table, fairly close together, and opposite them was a large, floor to ceiling, portrait of a summer scene in the countryside, a large grassy field, wild flowers, a merrily running river, a tree providing shade and shelter, and a white sheet with a beautiful woman sat on it, drink in hand, and a picnic basket at her side.

The Lady cooed at the sight of him, "Oh, aren't you handsome. Isn't he handsome? He looks just like Castor!" she exclaimed in delight, hanging off Mouzey's arm as he appeared.

The man smiled, "And behaves very much like him as well, my love," he agreed easily, pressing a kiss to the excitable woman's forehead. She giggled very much like a little girl, blushing happily at the gesture.

"Please, sit down. Food will be served when, erm, oh dear. Yes, I suppose introductions are in order, aren't they sweetie?" she asked, looking up at her husband.

He snorted, "They know who _I_ am, love."

She huffed, "I am Demeter Black, formerly known as Morainn Durless. But never mind that, dearie, may I have the pleasure of your name?" she pleaded sweetly.

"Harry Potter, ma'am," he mumbled awkwardly.

"Hm?" She leaned forward, having been unable to hear him.

"Ah, Harry Potter, ma'am," he repeated, louder, for her.

"None of this ma'am business, sweetheart. We're family afterall, call me Granny, or Grandma, whichever you're most comfortable with," she told him with a warm smile as she clapped her hands in delight.

Harry didn't get a chance to respond before the door was opened and a strange man walked in wearing steel blue-grey robes that were cut to accentuate his slim form and long dark hair pulled back gracefully with a pale grey ribbon. Harry tensed and immediately jumped to his feet.

"Who the hell are you?"

 _ **000**_

Bonaventura Fiorenzo Gasparo Mouzey Noir: Bonaventura (Good Fortune), Fiorenzo (Blossoming), Gasparo (Treasure Bearer), Mouzey (The name of Dark Mouzey from ), Noir (Black).

Felis: An old constellation name for the Cat.

Demeter: a Greek Goddess symbolised by a winged serpent. I thought it appropriate for the Lady in Question.

 _ **000**_

 **All shall be answered in the next chapter.**

 **Who is this strange man who just walked in?  
Why did Harry's hair turn purple?  
What does Mouzey have to do with Harry and why is he calling him his Heir?  
What do the eccentric Portrait Couple have planned for Harry?  
Is Sirius still in the bathtub?  
Has Kreacher put poison in the beef?**

 **All this answered next time on 'Drifting Cloud'...**


	3. Chapter 3

**Drifting Cloud**

 _ **000**_

 _After telling the magical world to go fuck themselves, Harry leaves, and declares his refusal to fight Voldemort for them. They're on their own as he rediscovers the forgotten Black Legacy and steps into a brand new world._

 **KHR/HP, mild Old Kingdom, Kingdom Hearts, , and Ocean's 11 crossovers.**

 **Slash**

 _ **000**_

 **CHAPTER THREE**

The man laughed, preening smugly in -

Harry gaped, "Sirius?!" he squawked.

Mouzey sniffed, "I suppose it will do," he declared dismissively. Sirius bristled and huffed, sticking his nose in the air and strutting to the empty seat while Harry arched an eyebrow at Mouzey who had a small vicious gleam of satisfaction in his eyes. "Now that we're all here, please, sit and eat your fill. Demeter and I will be happy to answer your questions once you've both been fed," he declared, the lady in purple nodding happily as she clapped her hands, the beautiful china plates in front of them suddenly filling with food, silver trays and bowls blossoming into existence within arms-reach. Roast lamb, roast pork, chicken, thick beef stew, roast vegetables, bowls of vivid green fresh peas, jugs of thick meaty smelling gravy, mint sauce, apple sauce. Sirius needed no invitation to dig in, cheerfully ladling himself out some of the thick stew with enthusiasm (as it was closest and smelled the best), fishing himself out a pair of doughy dumplings to soak up the gravy as he got stuck in.

Harry however was eyeing the painted couple as they set about interacting, or rather, as Mouzey started whispering no doubt naughty things into Lady Bla- into, erm, ' _Grandma_ 's ear, making her blush and giggle, and practically croon to him, smiling flirtatiously – Harry quickly turned his attention back to the dinner table, he felt a bit like a voyeur watching the painted couple flirt like that.

Keeping his head down, and refusing to acknowledge the blush that burned across the bridge of his nose up to the tips of his ears, he got himself some food, a few slices of lamb, a pork-chop, some roast veg and potatoes, and peas, and nearly drowned it all in gravy before getting into it. The meal was eaten mostly in silence, save for the occasional overheard giggle from one Mrs Demeter Black as Mouzey continued to whisper sweet nothings into her ear (Harry supposed it was nice that they were still in love, despite their many, many years together in paintings, but he wondered if that was just part of the enchantments?).

When their plates were cleared, the main meals whisked away and were replaced with jewel coloured jelly plates, cheesecakes, bowls of icecream in every flavour imaginable, coffees and liqueurs, crackers, grapes, fruit parfaits and flans, mints, chocolates, and various other after dinner treats and accompaniments. No treacle tart though, which he was sad to not see. But there was mint chocolate and caramel icecream, which he quite happily helped himself to while Sirius went for the coffee and liqueurs.

Mouzey cleared his throat, drawing their attention, "Now that the rumbling in your bellies has been satisfied, I'm sure you have a lot you would like to ask. Please feel free," he invited with a broad, flamboyant gesture that had his wife(?) sighing dreamily.

Sirius set down his coffee, "Alright, I'll bite. The hell is all this? I've never seen your picture before, or any of those other people with the weird coloured hair," he declared strongly with narrowed eyes, "Back then we were too pressed for time and the need to be somewhere _else_ , so I didn't kick up a stink, but honestly? Your interest in Harry is pushing the boundaries of my tolerance. I would like an explanation, a proper one, on who the fuck you are and what your interest in his sudden Metamorphmagus development is."

Mouzey leaned back in his seat, looking torn between disdainful and mildly impressed, "Starting off with the big questions first, aren't we? Very well. As I have _already_ stated before, I am the _first_ Black, Felis Black. Before I changed my name, the Mouzey family were well-known throughout Europe as an elite Famiglia renowned for their unparalleled, unequalled, ability in _assassination_." Both Sirius and Harry blanched, causing Mouzey to nod seriously. "Indeed. That was a direction I had no desire to pursue, especially with our Family's enemies becoming more and more determined to wipe us out. I changed our name, our area of interest. I began to use the training I received as an assassin to... for lack of a better word, _steal_ from those who would see our family dead. Ensuring they would be unable to see those desires into fruition. I took the family in a new, much more _lucrative_ direction. And a safer one at that. The rest of the Mafia world became aware of this change, and the hunt began again, aiming to wipe us out before we 'came to our senses' and returned to our former profession. All of my siblings were killed before I decided enough was enough and took what remained of our Family and returned to England – where I found my beloved Goddess and started the Black Family within the magical enclaves," he explained, smiling slyly at his wife as he wrapped an arm around her waist and pulled her close.

She giggled and placed a hand against his chest, "You were so dashing and mysterious, stealing me away from my father! So romantic!" she gushed dreamily.

"Stealing your heart in the process," he added smugly, rubbing the tip of his nose against hers, prompting another giggle.

Sirius pulled a face while Harry studiously returned to his icecream, letting the couple have their moment.

"We continued in the new direction," Mouzey explained, as if he hadn't paused to canoodle, "I trained my children in the art, and we made a _killing_ on robbing those arrogant pureblood swine," he declared with a vicious toothy shark's grin, "Sitting so pretty behind their wards, believing they would keep them safe. HAH. Do you know why the majority of the wards today came into creation? Because of _our_ family. They kept developing new ones to protect their properties, as if it would help them," he bragged, practically cackling as he drew his wife(?) closer into his lap, "Their precious magic, their oh so vaunted security spells and wards, fallen and useless in the face of simple, muggle, methods. The taste was ever so sweet, like warm summer mead. My sons excelled, though their sister out did them by far in magical pursuits, it was her who invented Portkeys and various other magical instruments, wards, spells, and what have you that made us the greatest family of thieves in the northern hemisphere. They remained family secrets, at least for a time. Then, one of our great-great-grand sons got it into his ambitious little head that thievery was petty and beneath individuals of such good breeding and wealth, never mind how that wealth was gained, and sought to buy his way into the British Nobility. Needless to say he succeeded, and then systematically went about erasing our short – but exceptionally successful history as the greatest thieves to have ever terrorised Europe. He sold a great deal of my daughter's spell advances and inventions in order to bolster our vaults and gain prestige. Our other children continued the family business of course, but Eridanus marked the end of an age for the Black Famiglia. It took a further three generations, but his will was done, and our family went... _Legitimate_ ," he finished with a grimace of revulsion and a shudder of disgust. He then gestured to Sirius, "It would be Phineas who struck all knowledge of our origins from the family records, hid it from the world, and sealed all of the houses and prior portraits of our family, those who came into their own and took up the family business. Those men and women with the jewel coloured hair."

Sirius could honestly say he was reeling. The Black family began as assassins who then became thieves?

They'd invented Portkeys?

"And... those people with the coloured hair?" Harry asked, far too used to having surprising amounts of family history dropped on his head to reel in the same way that Sirius, who had been stewing in his family's history since infancy, constantly being reminded of it, having it shoved in his face with every argument he had with his mother. "What do they have to do with me?" he prompted warily.

Mouzey smirked, "Tell me, did you happen to take either Divination, or Arithmancy in your education?" he asked instead.

"Uh, Divination, sir."

"Don't call me 'sir', ugh, that word gives me hives." Mouzey shuddered theatrically. "Now, Divination, you should be familiar with the term 'Soul Shades', yes?" At Harry's nod he grinned approvingly, "Purple, wasn't it?" he continued, lightly, watching as amethyst coloured eyes widened.

"Are you telling me that my hair being purple is because I have a purple Soul Shade?" he squawked.

Mouzey laughed, "Yes and no. Wizards and witches call it your Soul Shade, it was called something different in my day. Your Dying Will. The resonation of your soul, your life force, your determination. It is an energy that once activated will condense and become visible on the light spectrum as a certain colour, that's your Soul Shade, the frequency of your soul's power. There are seven colours, each have varying powers and abilities. The Blacks and the Mouzeys have always been well known for producing Cloud Flame users. Those with the purple flame," he elaborated as he gestured between the two of them with a smirk. "It only becomes active during high-stress situations and reveals entirely more about ones' personality and core character traits than they are often comfortable with. Our family, the Mouzeys', the Blacks, are even more unique amidst those who have learned how to activate their Dying Will. There are varying stages of intensity, but we are the _only_ family that runs before it can walk. One's normal Dying Will gives them an explosive burst of energy that removes all the limiters on the human brain and system, in otherwords, you will do whatever needs to be done regardless of morals, laws, other people around you, or even your body's limitations. There have been men and woman who have literally crippled themselves by accident with the first stage of their Dying Will. Our family skips past this explosive phase all together. We enter into a very rare and little known state called 'Hyper Dying Will Mode', a slow burn where everything is heightened, your perception, your physical abilities, your awareness, even your intelligence in some cases. However, we do have... a handicap on this front." He gestured to their hair again with a wry expression, "No other family's hair and eyes change in accordance with their Dying Will. Well... Save the Vongola. But only the Primo's line is able to do so, and even then only their eyes, instead of their flame washing back to stain their hair, it condenses and burns as a torch-light upon their third eye, a symbol of their Hyper Intuition, a preternatural awareness and perception of the world around them."

"Usually," Demeter broke in, "we seal the Dying Will flames away from our babies when they reach five. That's the age when it first becomes possible to activate them. That much power would burn up their little bodies," she shook her head mournfully as she pressed herself against her husband(?).

Mouzey nodded, "Our family does have some inborn resilience against the burn-out, that becomes stronger still with the introduction of magic. Yes, get that gormless look off your face, I am what you would call a muggle, stupid man," the violet haired man scoffed, flicking a hand dismissively in Sirius's gaping direction. "Typically, in order to make use of one's Dying Will, they must be put through an exceptionally high-stress situation and overcome their own limitations, emotionally and spiritually. This is, however, risky and more often than not results in the death of the individual trying. There are other assorted methods, drugs, hallucinogens, etc. Last I heard someone was even attempting to impress a sample of their Dying Will into a bullet in order to induce a Dying Will Mode on the individual struck with it. Completely ridiculous but who knows, with modern science, perhaps they have succeeded since our deaths. Regardless, even with the activation of your Dying Will, to control it would require training, even more so if you wished to advance to the next step, the Hyper Mode. Or, at least, they _usually_ do," he admitted slowly with a shark's grin as he eyed his young heir, the first Black in so many damn years to activate their Dying Will. It was a shame he hadn't done so sooner, his Predecessor had passed away only some three years ago, if only the old man had lasted a little longer. He had said there was potential amidst the younger Blacks. And look at him! Still going strong several hours later, not even an ounce of strain showing on him or his flame. Not even he had been so steady or long-lasting when he first activated his flame.

The potential this boy had... he could bring the Black Famiglia back from the dark depths of obscurity. Remind the Mafia world and the Magical Realm _why_ they had been feared, reviled, and above all – _filthy stinking_ _rich_.

"I – don't... um, I – I'm no thief," Harry pointed out softly.

Mouzey waved a hand, "Not right now, no, but we can train you up easily enough."

Harry shook his head, "No, you don't understand. I'm not a thief. I'm not going to steal anything," he declared firmly, "It's wrong." Especially when it was something he didn't even _need_. He had stolen food before, from the Dursleys, but only after days and weeks of going without. He had stolen pens and paper from Dudley, if only so he could do his homework, and he always put the pens back. But Mouzey was talking about valuable things, things like people's credit cards, their jewellery, watches, and other expensive things that could hold sentimental value, or they had worked hard in order to obtain. Things that Harry didn't _need_ , or even _want_ to be perfectly honest.

Sirius rolled his shoulders idly in his robes, "If that's a problem, then we'll see ourselves out," he finished as he sipped his coffee slowly, savouring it. He had been on the run once, in a hostile country. He could handle Italy. Just one trip to the Italian Ministry of Magic and he would be a free man and likely as not with access to the Black Fortune via the Goblins' (he had done it before, taken a Portkey from the French Gringotts branch to the British one and withdrawn money, then sent it off via Owl Order so the Firebolt could be delivered to his Godson for Christmas), it would be no hardship to get another house for him and Harry, ward it to the nines.

There was a long silence between the painted couple as they exchanged facial twitches and expansive hand-gestures, seemingly conversing without ever exchanging an actual word. The woman turned to them with a genial smile, "That's perfectly alright, sweetheart. You'll need to undergo training in order to handle your Dying Will Flame regardless, but it is your choice whether or not you wish to pick up the family business," she assured him with a kindly smile.

"If you change your mind, that's alright too," Mouzey chimed in, sounding fairly certain that he would.

Harry smiled tightly at him, "I'm sure," he grit out sarcastically.

"Boys!" Demeter chided, giving her husband a swat even as she giggled, Mouzey smirked and stuck his nose into the side of her neck, making her squeak.

"How about we go and settle ourselves in?" Sirius suggested loudly as he caught Mouzey's hands beginning to wander (he didn't want to find out whether or not portraits could have sex, that was something he didn't want to contemplate, even though he was fairly sure he and _Wormtail_ spent twenty minutes theorising it while high off their tits smoking gillyweed).

Harry nodded frantically as a squealed giggle hit their ears, accompanied by a low chuckle, "That's a good idea. We can even explore the rest of the house and outside!" he added, his voice a little high as his face burned sunset red.

The two of them made a hasty retreat – Demeter's giggles chasing their heels.

 _ **000**_

The house, Sky Cottage, was about three times bigger than Uncle Vernon and Aunt Petunia's house, set on the Italian coast, it was a bright splash of colour on a cliff top overlooking turquoise coloured water with a small private strip of beach that they shared with their closest neighbours. The grounds were extensive, more so than the house, and mostly overgrown and left to the wilderness. There was a large toolshed and greenhouse, even stables, though they were empty, untouched, and swept clean.

The house itself was surprisingly open and homely, with a traditional italian style kitchen, and small herb garden at the back door, complete with an oven kiln (Harry was already making plans for all the different foods he could cook in that thing, Sirius was listening to his mutters with drool increasingly running down his chin – if he had a tail, he probably would have hurt himself with how hard it would have been wagging). An elegant dining room – the same one they had eaten in earlier – that lead onto a small balcony with garden furniture overlooking the overgrown remnants of a rose garden and a fantastic view of the beach. There was the entrance hall done in rose marble, white, and gold trimming, with the troll leg as well, looking exceptionally out of place. There was a sitting room, done in shades of brown, bronze, red, gold, and white. A drawing room that had several bookcases and a large fireplace, and a desk that Harry took one look at before making mental plans to have shrunk and installed in his bedroom (when he chose one).

Upstairs was two wings, about six bedrooms, only two of them being en-suite, a large library that also occupied the tower, it seemed fully stocked as well. There were two more bathrooms, a set of offices, and another drawing room, this one with a grand piano inside of it. Harry ended up choosing the bedroom with the huge french windows that opened out overlooking the garden and the beach (the one above the dining room), while Sirius decided to snag the biggest room with the huge en-suite (the bathrub in there could comfortably sit ten people and had multiple taps not unlike the Prefect's Bathroom at Hogwarts).

Once their things had been unpacked they met up once again in the corridor and just exchanged looks.

Now what?

 _ **000**_

The first night was... difficult.

The bed was too big for Harry, the sheets, despite being luxurious, smelt faintly of dust and stale air, and felt cold when he crawled in and burrowed down to warm up. Then there was the disquieting sounds, the lack of Ron snoring to one side, or Uncle Vernon grunting and rolling over in his sleep, there were no cars outside, nor the sound of Hedwig rustling in her cage or swooping in and out as she pleased. Just the constant sound of the sea, and the unfamiliar creaks and groans of a house yet again becoming used to being lived in. Still, thankfully, at some point while he slept, the odd purple shade of his hair had faded.

And the morning saw him once again with a full head of black hair, green eyes, and a bowl of maggots being popped into his lap from a resentful Kreacher as breakfast. The shriek Harry heard from Sirius's room made him snicker as he tipped the bowl out of the window. But it did remind Harry of something important.

Food, shopping, and cooking.

Sirius was a proven mess in the kitchen, it was the only reason Molly took over at Headquarters (beyond the fact that she hated feeling useless), and with Kreacher being unreliable at best, and hostile at worst, it meant they would have to fend for themselves. Or rather, Harry would have to look into getting food for them as soon as possible. If they were staying.

To be honest, he still felt very displaced, as if he were intruding on someone else's house, like he didn't belong.

The opulent surroundings didn't help. He felt too dirty to be allowed as he dug out a change of clothes from the chest of draws. His room wasn't the largest in the house, nor was it en-suite, he chose it for the view and the fact that it was the smallest of them all, it was still about the size of the Dursleys' living room though. He had a large four-poster king-sized bed (it didn't look much different from a regular double bed in all honesty, just a bit wider), in white and lavender with heavy black-out curtains. The carpet was cream coloured, thick, plush, and dusty. With windows dominating the wall facing the ocean, he had left that side of the room clear save for the coffee table which he shifted to the middle in front of the curtains, on top of it sat his photo-album, the pensieve catalogue, wand, and a few other knickknacks. At the foot of his bed was the monster desk he moved from the drawing room, it was large enough to fit the king-sized bed horizontally and have room left over for a small book-case to flank it on the right-hand side. The desk itself was massive, possessing a bookcase at the back of the desktop, complete with several little almost apothecary styled draws with brass label holders. The left side had a cupboard and set of draws down by his feet, and in his exploration he also discovered a _pair_ of hidden draws, one that was only large enough to perhaps a key or some papers in the top draw under the desk itself, the other under the desktop properly that he could only feel the grooves to and hadn't yet figured out how to open. He had a pair of bedside tables, both of which possessing brass oil-lamps and various elaborate candle-holders. A pair of large heavy wardrobes stood at the wall opposite the window, with a set of chest-of-draws between them. All of it was filled, robes and what have you in the wardrobes, shirts hanging up, trousers, underpants, socks, muggle clothing, etc, in the chest of draws. All the trunks were tucked under his bed, and the bookcases were already filled with all the conquered books from the assorted trunks.

Even with his books on the selves, his parchment and quills on the desk, his broom on top of the chest of draws, his clothes in the draws, it still didn't feel like _his_ room. It was a singularly weird sensation.

He wondered if some Quidditch posters would fix that?

He sighed and stamped into his shoes, he would figure it out later, right now, food shoppin- _no_ , right now they needed to go to the Italian Magic Quarter to access Gringotts for money, breakfast, _then_ they would be going to the Italian Ministry to get Sirius cleared, and have the trace removed from Harry's wand because like _hell_ was he going to go to a school where his presence would be made known by all and sundry – the last thing he wanted was to bring Voldemort down onto another school just because he was there. He had already proven he was ready, willing, and able to murder school children to get what he wanted.

Closing his door behind him, Harry quietly made his way down the hall to the sound of Sirius pitching a fit in his room, bellowing about Kreacher – though thankfully he hadn't ordered the elderly elf to punish himself, Harry would have had to have stepped in if he had.

Opening the door, he peeked his head in and suppressed a snort when he saw the state of the man's room.

"If you call this packing everything away, then I'm worried about what you would call tidying up," he declared as he opened the door properly onto the minor bomb-site the older man had made of his room in the scant hours they had been living there. Half-folded robes were in piles, trunks stacked one on top of the other with towering piles of books stacked on top of them, a penseive glimmering on the table, hair care products stolen from the bathroom, photoalbums, other assorted bits and bombs like a model motorbike, Quidditch balls with signatures on them, posters of muggle women stretched out over motorbikes in bikinis were already featured prominently on the walls, and a Gryffindor Scarf was also pinned beside them.

Sirius glared at him from where he was picking maggots out of his hair and clothing, "I see you didn't get any unpleasant surprises," he grunted unhappily.

Harry chuckled, "Oh I did. I just decided not to up end the bowl over myself. Go and get dressed, we've got a busy day today," he told his Godfather, manoeuvring around the piles of unpacked but not put away possessions and yanked open the curtains.

Sirius cursed unhappily, covering his eyes as the light streamed into the room, making them ache. His room was the largest in the house, the Master Bedroom, as such it had a queen sized bed (significantly and noticeably bigger than Harry's), all the wooden furnishings were the same dark ebony shade with white and cream sheets and curtains, the carpet was a pale peach colour, and the curtains over the windows were dark red and embroidered with keys.

"What do you mean?" the older Gryffindor demanded, grimacing as he tried to get out of the bed without causing any of the maggots to pop and smear across the sheets.

Harry rolled his eyes, "Are you a Wizard or not, Sirius?" he complained, recalling First Year and Hermione's ' _but there's no wood_ ', honestly. "We can't rely on Kreacher to cook for us, so we need to go shopping and get our own supplies. But that means we need to get your name cleared _and_ some money out from Gringotts. We have a lot to do today," he explained as, with an embarrassed flush, Sirius snatched his wand from the bedside table and quickly vanished all the maggots and cast a cleaning charm on the bedsheets.

Waiting for Sirius to dress and primp took probably the longest, leaving Harry to meander around the cottage with Demeter and Mouzey flitting from portrait to portrait telling him about the house, their memories here, and about their eldest son, Castor, who he apparently not only looked a lot like, but also acted a lot like.

"How do we get into the Magic quarter?" Harry asked the Lady who paused, mid-reminisce, to ponder it thoughtfully.

"Well, if things haven't changed in the last four hundred years, then there should be a hidden door on the left side of _Arco di Constantino_ – ah, excuse me, the Arch of Constantine. You need to shake hands with the statue in the smaller left-hand entrance facing the Colosseum. The one with the shield bearing a bullrush. He'll step aside in order to unlock the door hidden behind him," she explained thoughtfully, "The alley is down the stairs in the magical section of the Colosseum, between the arches. It was so beautiful, I don't know what it looks like now, you'll have to tell me."

"I will," Harry assured her as Sirius _finally_ surfaced from the bathroom, looking as close to a hundred galleons as he could. Harry only scoffed in annoyance.

 _ **000**_

There were no Portkeys to the Magic quarter in the house (not that either Sirius OR Harry would be willing to take them after _last_ time), and Sirius had never been to the Colosseum, meaning they had absolutely no idea how to get there, and couldn't Apparate. Hell, they didn't even know exactly _where_ in Italy they were. Just that it was somewhere in the south, and on the coast.

Thankfully, England wasn't the only country to have its own form of 'On-Demand' magical transportation.

The taxi BANGed into existence, skidding to an abrupt stop in front of them as Sirius took a startled step back, Wand still aloft from where he had used it to signal the car, the same way he would the Knight Bus. The window rolled down and a grumpy looking tanned man barked at them from the window when they made no move to open the door.

Harry, more used to taxi drivers than Sirius (even though British Taxi drivers were _definitely_ not nearly so rude, or impatient – or perhaps that was just the muggle ones?), cleared his throat awkwardly stepping forward and peering through the open window, "Sorry, you don't happen to speak English, do you?" he asked warily a moment before the man's face practically lit up.

"English! Yes, yes, I speak! Come, come! Inside. Where you want to go? Eh? You Tourist? Florenzia? Veniche? Roma? Ahaha, I take you home to visit Mama? She feed you up good. You are too thin, eh? She make a _beautiful_ meal, we'll be rolling you from the house," he boasted, voice loud and booming, the accented English rolling off his tongue almost like a sing-song as with a flick of his wand, the doors popped open of their own accord.

"Ah, Rome, please, Gringotts if possible?" Harry asked as he slid in, politely ignoring the offer of dinner at his mother's, not taking it seriously at all.

"No problema! Buckle in!" the driver called as Sirius looked at his godson in wide eyed askance on the seat beside him. Surely he had been in cars before, Harry thought, before realising that no, magical cars didn't have seatbelts normally, and the Black Family wouldn't have touched one of them. Sirius's rebellion had involved motorbikes, and they didn't have seatbelts. Harry blanched and quickly showed him what to do with his own seatbelt. The second the Dog Animagus' belt clicked into place, the two of them were practically thrown back into their seats as the driver hit the acceleration. Hard.

Harry didn't think he would ever meet a man who drove as badly as Aunt Marge after a few. But this man was all that, _and_ worse. Like some talkative, lightning reflexed conglomeration of his Uncle's sister after a bottle of gin, and Ernie from the Knight Bus after entirely too much coffee, now available in Italian. The little white car zipped along around a confusing maze of streets, seemingly flashing here and there into completely separate cities with tooth-rattling CRACKs of displaced air. The driver, whom Harry was pretty certain he heard introduce himself as Frederico somewhere in the rolling tide of one-sided conversation, often took his eyes off the road as he made expansive gestures with one hand, and lazily pulled on his steering wheel with the other, leaning into each turn as he did so – like a broomrider would.

Harry decided that, unlike riding a broom, he _definitely_ did not like this form of transportation. At all. In fact, he felt queasy.

Was this how Hermione felt whenever they took her flying?

If so, he was sorry. So very, very sorry.

Then, almost as abruptly as they shot off, they stopped. The seatbelts went taut as they were very nearly thrown into the front seats by the inertia of the car. And then suddenly they were slamming back into the slightly stiff upholstery that Harry dimly realised possessed fingernail imprints. Ah. This wasn't an uncommon reaction to Magical Taxis then, even other wizards and witches felt this kind of discomfort. Good to know.

He fell out of the Taxi and spent the next three minutes worshipping the solid, stable, cool cobblestones beneath his left cheek.

Whatever Sirius was doing (paying the Taxi driver and getting his contact details for a date later in the week, not that Harry knew) eventually wrapped up, and the Taxi banged away again. His godfather nudged him with a foot, gently, because Harry still had yet to move after his graceless tumble from the death machine.

"Harry? You're making a scene," he muttered uncomfortably before crouching down beside him and peering at his face. "You okay?" he asked.

"Never. Again."

"Well, if you ever want to come here without me it's the only-" Harry's hand snapped up and grabbed the front of his robes, he used Sirius to haul himself up until he was nose to nose with him.

"Never. Again."

Sirius swallowed at the pale, sweaty, and slightly manic look on his beloved Prongslet's face, "Never again, right, got it," he quickly assured the young Gryffindor, recalling how Moony bragged, _Moony_ bragged, actually _bragged_ , about how quick and skilled Harry was with a wand when the chips were down (a corporal Patronus at thirteen).

Harry dropped him and flopped back onto the pavement with a groan, "I never thought I would ride something worse than the Knight Bus," he whined, making the Dog Animagus snort in laughter. Harry eventually peeled himself up off the floor, but only when he heard another Taxi bang into existence not far from his right.

Brushing himself off, and readjusting his glasses, Harry took his first look around the Magical Shopping District of Italy.

It was surprisingly clean. And _open_. Despite being underground.

He boggled a little at the sight of the ceiling, stretching up _high_ above them, it was a gentle, almost lazily curving gigantic mosaic done in precious metals, gems, and stone. And somehow it gave off light. Not enough to blind him, but he could definitely see the stones _glowing_. The ceiling wasn't any particular picture persay, in fact, it looked like the sky outside, or rather how he imagined it would look, complete with lazily drifting white clouds that slowly crawled across a robin's egg blue sky. Was it like Hogwarts' Great Hall? Enchanted to look exactly like the sky outside? He would have to ask Lady Bl- _grandma_ when he got home.

He peered around the oddly open and well-lit surroundings. Absolutely _none_ of it anything like Diagon Alley, Knockturn Alley, or even the Ministry of Magic.

They were stood on a slightly raised pavement in a large circular open cobblestone plaza, the stones were pale yellow and almost unnaturally clean of moss and lichen. Behind them was a Taxi rank, a single neat row of white taxis lined up one in front of the other, their drivers, male and female, smoking and chattering happily to one another in rolling Italian. A little further behind them was some kind of Floo station, a long line of fireplaces, about twice Harry's height tall, and five times wider, gently smouldering in the warm almost-sunlight above. There were about ten of these super-huge Floos, and even as he watched, two of them flared into life. A family of four, mother, father, and two children, hustling out of one, chattering loudly and dressed in flowing white... well, Roman styled togas. The same togas that... upon second look, almost everyone who wasn't a taxi driver was wearing (Harry shifted, now feeling very uncomfortable in his _very_ conspicuously British robes). The other Floo had two individuals stepping out that had _clearly_ come from different locations, a muscular young man in leathers and belts (Harry took a moment to blink at what Seamus had once described as Virginity Armour around the young man's waist, that number of belts had to be uncomfortable when you were bending or sitting down), and a pompous looking older man in white and gold-lined maroon drapes. The older man took one look at the younger, and practically lit up in excitement, giving him a sweeping bow and a cheery greeting before sweeping off somewhere when said leather clad man merely grunted and nodded at him.

Harry quickly looked away when he suspiciously glared over in their direction.

He could see a somewhat raised platform with multiple coloured bricks seeming to lay out in a grid, almost. They were laid out in lines but there were wide open spaces around them, if Harry had to describe them, it looked almost like the designs on the Marauder's Map for the classrooms. What it was for, he couldn't hazard a guess, but it became only too obvious in short order as a rather harried looking older woman CRACKed into existence within one of the carefully laid out squares. Apparation point. And a much more organised one than the British used. Hermione would be ecstatic. The squares were entry and exit points, they had wide open unmarked space around them so the person who popped in could step out of their square and leave without stepping into another, and potentially Splinching themselves with another incoming Witch or Wizard.

He turned away from the various entry points to the underground area and looked up, and up, at the snow white marble building fashioned to look like an Ancient Roman temple, complete with high columns, a long staircase, and a deep portico. Gringotts. A much cleaner, grander, and _straighter_ looking Gringotts compared to the one in Diagon Alley, which looked like it could do with a few cleaning charms. Harry squinted, peering up the steps and, yes, the Goblin Guards he could see stationed outside were wearing golden armour, looking very much like tiny demonic gladiators mixed with soldiers.

Oddly, he also spotted both a small Healer's Clinic (he was assuming by the posters in the window that looked remarkably like the ones he saw at the Doctor's Surgery in Little Whinging), and what could have only been a small Auror Outpost. The Italian Aurors looked like nothing Harry had ever seen. They were... well they were _kind_ of armoured? So weird. They didn't wear robes, or togas, or roman armour. They looked closer to muggle officers than anything else. Or rather, they would have if not for the _clearly_ magical materials used to make their clothing, or their equipment. Some of which Harry couldn't even identify. The main colour of their uniform was a plain dark grey, and navy blue. Normal navy blue trousers, but with so many pockets and pouches, Harry didn't even know the exact number, and all of them looked like they were in use. They wore dragon-hide boots their trousers were tucked into. Utility belts with so much stuff clipped or tied to them they should have fallen down by now and taken the trousers along with them. Dark grey short-sleeve shirts with white embroidery on the cuffs and breast pocket bearing an I.D. Number and a few other designs that Harry assumed denoted their ranks and departments for quick identification. Over the shirts were black dragon-hide vests wrapped in an unknown fabric that Harry would _like_ to think was silk, but wasn't certain, also in grey. Around their wrists were some kind of all in one communicator-wand holster-hidden knife thing. He could see a communication mirror built in on the back of their arm, and what looked like a wand holster on one arm, and a spring-operated tube on the other with the ominous glint of metallic on the inside. So he assumed knife. Or worse, crossbow bolt.

Hey, he didn't know how other countries handled their law enforcement! And given how the British use DEMENTORS as prison guards, the Italians could very well use crossbows and consider it perfectly acceptable.

Wizards were weird like that.

The final place he looked at put him immediately in mind of Ollivanders. It was a wand shop. Simple, quaint, and entirely out of place in this zone of white marble and pale yellow sandstone seeing as it was made of wooden logs. It even had flowery hanging baskets for decoration. Harry couldn't read the Italian sign, but the displays of wands, rings, staves, even a sword, and a stick with a little golden star on the tip, more than explained just what he was looking at. Even though it looked more like a cheery Swedish Café than a wand shop.

"Here," Sirius was suddenly saying as he shoved a tube of something under Harry's nose. The Gryffindor almost jolted out of his skin before giving his godfather the stink eye. The Dog Animagus grinned, utterly unrepentant as he sucked idly on something, giving the tube under Harry's nose another wiggle. "Language Lozenges. The lady at the Tourist information place gave them out for free. They're little potion-sweets with some careful charm work that'll teach you the language you hear most while you're sucking on them. I got two tubes, one for you, one for me."

Harry took the tube with an almost sour look, "You know this means we're going to have to wait a while before we go to the Ministry of Magic then, don't you?" he asked doubtfully.

Sirius frowned, confused, "Why?"

"Because how are they going to understand us if we still don't speak the language properly?" he asked even as he tossed back one of the lozenges.

Sirius snorted in amusement, "This is Europe, Harry. As conceited as it sounds, almost everyone speaks English. Typically because the British are too stubborn and arrogant to learn someone else's language, but still. _Almost_ everyone will speak it, Law Enforcement especially. Besides, it's a requirement for the M.E.N. that all Ministries signed up beneath them have a small team of multiple language interpreters," he explained cheerily, "as soon as we're done in Gringotts, we'll grab something to nibble on, and then go and talk to those lovely gentlemen at the outpost, yeah?"

Harry wrinkled his nose, nodding reluctantly as he sucked on his peach flavoured lozenge, "Alright."

 _ **000**_

 **Debating whether or not to cover the Ministry of Magic in detail. I probably will. Next chapter though. XDDD**


	4. Chapter 4

**Drifting Cloud**

 _ **000**_

 _After telling the magical world to go fuck themselves, Harry leaves, and declares his refusal to fight Voldemort for them. They're on their own as he rediscovers the forgotten Black Legacy and steps into a brand new world._

 **KHR/HP, mild Old Kingdom, Kingdom Hearts, , and Ocean's 11 crossovers.**

 **Slash**

 _ **000**_

 **CHAPTER FOUR**

The Italian Magical District was less a shopping alley, and more of an underground _city_ , smack-dab under the Roman Colosseum and stretching out in a sprawling labyrinth of side-streets and plazas like some kind of lazy spider with too many legs. With seven sections in total, one in the centre, another six surrounding it, and the many legged side-streets extending throughout Rome, potentially under the whole city, it couldn't have been more different from Diagon Alley if it tried.

While Diagon was cramped, and crooked, and dark, with grubby windows filled with chaos and motion, people going about their business with very little interaction with one another, Italy was bright, and sprawling, with wide streets drenched in artificial sunlight. Clean cut lines and classical architecture, there were flowers on almost every building, from hanging baskets, flower beds beneath street-lamps that _also_ had hanging baskets, plant pots in front businesses. There were flowers everywhere. Men and women greeting one another loudly and cheerfully, dressed in togas of varying cuts, or muggle fashions, grasping forearms, hands, exchanging hugs and kisses, generally being loud and merry as they gestured broadly and emphatically.

The central plaza was where they came in, it carried the key shops and entry points to the area along with an Auror outpost and Gringotts, every section was accessible via the Central Plaza. To the North-East was the Food-District, full of sweet shops, cafés, wholesale markets, import markets, restaurants, muggle-supermarkets, farmer's markets – if it had to do with food, farming, wine, or other kinds of edible non-magical produce, then that was the place to go. To the East was the Fashion District. Clothing, fabrics, accessories, leather work, armours, jewellery, anything and everything could be found there, including the workshops of famous fashion designers, and famous tailors. To the South-East was the Library District, called such because it was just nothing but bookshops and stationary shops. Second hand bookstores, printing shops, newspaper stands and editing offices, printing presses, and yes, even a few libraries and a single solitary muggle-internet café that had been carefully warded so that it would work in the magically enriched environment.

South-West was an unnamed District that was generally filled with odds and ends, equipment that would be very useful, it was basically a large melting pot of objects. Trunk shops, junk shops, broomstick stores, telescopes, furniture, games and prank shops, repair shops, second hand shops, even a few import and export businesses were dotted around in places.

To the West was the Market Bazaar. A huge market place where individual Witches and Wizards would just set up a table and start selling, one had to allow a team of Aurors to test their wares first, to make sure they weren't purposefully harmful, such as selling a poison as a restorative, and then they would be issued a license to set up. Said license had to be on display at all hours, but aside from checking that nothing was Dark or harmful they were left to their own devices. A lot of non-humans had even set up stalls in the Bazaar, a rather... strangely normal and cheerful Centaur was offering palm readings for a Galleon, House-elves had a cleaning for hire stall, and a rather overweight Satyr had set up a miniaturised Duelling Colosseum which seemed to have become a permanent fixture if the wards on it were any indication.

To the North-West was the final district, the Apothecary District, filled with Potion shops, Apothecary and ingredient shops, pet shops, a butchers, various Herbology stores, in fact, with the way the Apothecary District was set up, one often ended up wandering into the Food District by accident. One moment they were exploring the Herbology shops, the next they were wondering why the Bogvine Watermelon had yet to throttle the witch that was squeezing it like that, before realising it was a normal watermelon and you'd gone one street too many over into the next District.

The side alleys, depending on where you went, had a number of small independent businesses, often times they were Bazaar regulars who had finally managed to save up enough for a property to do their business out of. Bars, pubs, clubs, a few cafés, and in some of the seedier areas, brothels that the Aurors turned a blind eye to for reasons unknown, or illegal dark magic markets and fight clubs.

Harry and Sirius had quickly gotten lost as they sucked on their lozenges and just meandered through the streets, soaking up the language until they were fluent in it. More and more words becoming distinguishable to them the longer they spent listening. By the time they managed to find their way to a nice Café in the Food Market – after exploring every district already – they were ravenous, but fluent as they ordered a quick breakfast.

Sirius sighed deeply in relief as he tossed his napkin down, grinning at his godson as he polished off the last of the pastries they had ordered. "Shall we go get arrested?" he asked lightly, watching as green eyes flicked up in his direction before a crooked grin stole over the fifteen year old's lips.

"Let's hope I don't get arrested for Aiding and Abetting," he muttered before throwing his napkin down.

"This isn't England. The M.E.N actually have a Reasonable Cause law for a lot of crimes, I think this one falls under it since there's been a serious miscarriage of justice," the older wizard explained as he threw down a few sickles as a tip for the elf who quickly cleaned up their dishes. His ears flapped happily as the silver coins vanished into the little apron he wore and bowed them out of the café.

Harry frowned at his godfather, "If the M.E.N could do all that... why didn't you try to get your name cleared earlier?" he asked curiously.

Sirius's step hitched, and he came to a stop, blinking and then frowning, "I... It... never occurred to me?" he offered, sounding almost as confused as Harry himself. The younger Gryffindor hummed sceptically before shrugging, brushing the thought off, Azkaban must have messed with Sirius's head in more ways than one, plus the inherent distrust of the Governments he must have cultivated in those twelve years alone, stewing in his thoughts. Going to the Government, let alone one in another country, had probably never occurred to him as he was too busy chasing Pettigrew.

They made their way to the Central Plaza, and then headed for the Auror outpost. It looked a lot like the Tourist Information booth in that the sliding windows were open and the counter extended from one side of the wall to the other. Inside they could see it had been expanded, and a few Aurors inside were filling in paperwork, sipping drinks, chatting quietly, and watching a wall of mirrors that – oh, had a birds eye view of the whole Magic District. There must have been two-way mirrors in the mosaic overhead.

Sirius knocked on the glass and grinned, waving a little when several of them turned to look at him.

"Afternoon gents, and lady," he added with a flirtatious grin and wink at the young blonde haired woman at her desk with a stack of paperwork as high as Harry's forearm from wrist to elbow. "Sirius Black, I'm turning myself in for Trial under the M.E.N," he declared as he set his wand down on the counter in front of them.

A paper cup slipped from one Wizard's fingers, and Harry slapped a palm to his forehead.

Of all ways he could have -

Well, at least the Aurors were decent about the whole thing.

They didn't seem to believe them at first but apparently they were willing to humour them, they brought both Harry and Sirius into the outpost and secured Sirius's hands in a Null-Box, a silver cube with runes and sigils etched into it that nullified magic, he was unable to use wandless magic, wanded magic, and since the box encased both hands, do much of anything else. They ran his wand through their identifier and when the name Regulus Black popped up, they burst into a flurry of action.

It would have been funny, if Harry hadn't immediately been on the receiving end of the same treatment that Sirius faced. He was swiftly disarmed of his wand, which was similarly checked, and his hands shut into a similar Null-Box, causing him to shudder queasily as a cold sick feeling filled him. They were then forced into separate rooms, sat down and glued there with a sticking charm before being left alone for a while. Who knew what they were doing outside, but hopefully it wasn't informing the British of just who they had in custody.

Sirius seemed confident in the M.E.N, Harry wished he shared the Dog Animagus's faith.

About twenty minutes later, the door opened and Harry sat back up from where he had been leaning forward on his chair to rest his forehead on the tabletop, hands dangling listlessly between his legs.

The Auror, a semi-young seeming man in uniform with dark hair, olive skin, and a dimpled smile stepped in carrying a cup and a few other stationary objects. The door was closed behind him and the officer bustled over and quickly began to set up the stationary under his arm. A rolling scroll, charmed to never run out of space and continue rolling along as you write, and a dict'a'quill. A mini-penseive, a mirror, and the cup followed.

The Auror tapped the dict'a'quill sharply, "Date: thirteenth of August, nineteen ninety five. Interviewing Auror: Ermes Montello. Interviewee: Harry James Potter. Significant notes: Mister Potter was brought in at eleven-forty-three am in the company of one, Sirius Orion Black, who has willingly handed himself in to the Italian Ministry of Magic requesting fair trial under M.E.N guidelines. This interview is to ascertain the current circumstances of the situation, Mister Potter's involvement in them, and confirm Mister Black's testimony. Let it be known for the record that I will now explain standard interview practice for Mister Potter.

"Mister Potter, I am Auror Montello. By the legislation of the Magical European Nations, the standard interviewing procedure for situations such as this involves taking Veritaserum, the only known Truth Serum with no counter-potions, and submitting relevant memories for view. I am afraid that to opt out of this procedure is to face a fine of up to two-hundred Galleons, or possibly jail time for wasting Auror time, or even obstruction of justice depending on the severity of the situation. Any questions?" Auror Montello asked, smiling kindly at him from over the table.

Harry pondered this, "Will the British Ministry of Magic be informed of this?" he asked warily.

Auror Montello shook his head, "Not until the investigation has been concluded, Mister Potter, and even then only to inform them of our findings. Were Britain under M.E.N legislature then yes, however, considering how they have opted out they have no jurisdiction over our legal system, or individuals who find themselves being processed by it. They will remain uninformed as to these goings on until they have been concluded. Do you understand?" Harry nodded and the Auror gave him a small smile, "Please confirm that verbally, Mister Potter. Unfortunately the quill doesn't have eyes," he joked, making the Gryffindor's face flush in embarrassment.

"Ah, yes. I understand. Thank you."

"You're welcome. Now, first, we'll start with the Veritaserum, a few basic questions to find out whether or not you're telling the truth, and then we'll get into the meat of it. Once I have a clear picture from the questioning, I'll be requesting memories of the relevant incidents for viewing via the penseive. Understand?"

"Yes sir," Harry agreed, feeling the anxiousness that had corkscrewed up his spine loosen and relax. Veritaserum and Penseive memories, wonderful, _perfect_. No one could accuse him of lying, no one could try to sweep it under the rug, this was fantastic. Finally, a Ministry that was actually doing its job _right_!

"Well, bottoms' up then," the Auror enthused, giving the small paper cup a push towards him.

Grimacing at the thought of what a Truth Serum could taste like, Harry sipped the drink through a straw as his hands were still bound, surprised to find it as just water.

"For the record, please note that Mister Potter is drinking the Veritaserum without protest. All of it please, three drops of Serum have been diluted within it so you will have to tell the truth but coherently so. Now, Mister Potter, what is your full name?"

"Harry James Potter."

"What is your date of birth?"

"Thirty-first of July, nineteen eighty."

"What was the name of your first cuddly toy?" Montello asked, grinning devilishly.

He struggled to lie, he did, he knew it was weird for kids to have never possessed some form of blankie, or soft toy, or even doll/train that they never let anyone pry from their sticky little fingers. But he had never possessed such things, and that would set alarm bells ringing. So he tried to lie. Tried to say it was a black dog called Padfoot, which he fancied he probably did possess as an infant but... "I never had a cuddly toy to my memory," Harry informed him tightly, sounding (and looking) as if he were desperately holding back the mother of all farts.

Montello paused, frowning slightly at him. Harry gritted his teeth and turned his head away from him, feeling a hot rush of shame bubbling in the pit of his stomach.

"For the record, please note, it seems as though the Veritaserum is working as per-usual. Mister Potter has attempted to lie on the last question and been proven unable to. Commencing Interview proper at the time of... fourteen hundred hours, and twelve minutes.

"Mister Potter, are you aware that you were in the company of Sirius Black, convicted Death Eater and Azkaban Escapee?" he asked, lacing his fingers together thoughtfully and pinning Harry in place with brown eyes.

"Yes."

"Were you there willingly?"

"Yes."

"Please elaborate on your relationship with Sirius Black from when you first encountered one another to this date."

Harry grunted as he tried to pull against the effects of the potion, but it all came tumbling out of his lips anyway. He told Auror Montello about first seeing him in his Animagus form after he ran away from Privet Drive, about how he hadn't even _known_ that Sirius was his Godfather, or supposedly responsible for the betrayal and deaths of his parents. About how he hated him, as much as a thirteen year old who didn't truly understand what hatred really was could. And then the tale of the Marauders, of Sirius, James, Remus, and Peter, all of it falling out like bitter vomit from between his lips as he explained the events of that night in the Shrieking Shack, how he attacked Snape in order to find out the truth, how Remus and Sirius were threatened with the Dementor's Kiss over a school-boy grudge. How Remus had forgotten his potion, and Peter had escaped. About _so_ many Laws that he and Hermione broke in order to see to it that an innocent man didn't lose his soul.

Auror Montello's face was ash white, and every now and again he would weakly interrupt to ask him to further explain something, like the Marauder's Map, Hermione's Timeturner, his Invisibility Cloak, even Harry's Patronus Charm and how he learned it.

The whole tale of how a man broke out of hell on earth to rescue his Godson from a murderer no one knew existed, and how he escaped on the back of a Hippogriff to be executed thanks to the arrogance of a brat in a position of power. And how at the first instance of trouble, the first sign that said Godson was in pain and needed help, he came back. Hiding out in a cave, living off rats, just so he could be near-by if ever he was needed.

It had never really occurred to Harry until that point just... Sirius... everything...

His voice cracked and stumbled every now and again, and he wasn't even ashamed of the tears that tracked down his cheeks as he continued to talk, the potion pushing him on. Right now, he didn't _want_ to stop. Right now he _wanted_ everyone to know how amazing, incredible, selfless, and brave Sirius was. He wanted Sirius to be cleared, now more than ever. So what if he went down for breaking the Law? Sirius would be free, and the M.E.N wouldn't throw them back to England as there was no extradition order between England or any nation under said M.E.N legislature.

So he talked, and talked, and talked, until his voice went hoarse and died to a whisper. He told Auror Montello _everything_. Sirius, Pettigrew, his parents' deaths, and then, finally, his sham of a Trial and how Sirius took him and fled the country because he didn't want to fight Voldemort, or end up forced to fight him as Dumbledore seemed to keep strong-arming some manner of confrontation almost every damn year.

Montello sat up sharply, now looking a delicate shade of green, "Please elaborate. Are you claiming that You-Know-Who has returned?" he demanded.

"Yes. At the end of the Triwizard Tournament I witnessed and partook in his resurrection ceremony," Harry explained, which started a new exhaustive round of questioning about the Triward Tournament, his part in it, Voldemort's revival, Moody and Barty, and what happened after he returned.

By the time he'd finished the whole messed up story from start to finish, his voice was gone, he was left croaking the final details of the Dementor attack in Privet Drive, and Sirius taking him away from England after he was expelled. Auror Montello gently pushed a glass of water over to him, looking as if his whole world had crumbled around his ears.

"Interview concluded at twenty hundred hours, thirty six minutes. Further review required. I will now be extracting Mister Potter's memories for review and comparison. End recording. _Finite_ ," the young man intoned, gently tapping the parchment with his wand and causing the quill to go inert. Harry shivered in his seat, sipping a second glass of water, feeling wrung out and exhausted, a little dazed and queasy as well. He felt almost as if he had just climbed off his broom back in the Triwizard Tournament, light, shaky, filled with adrenaline.

They weren't allowed to leave the Auror Outpost that night now that they were in custody. Harry had his memories gently removed and stored in familiar little phials and a silver rolodex, reminding him that Dumbledore supposedly had several memories of his locked away as well. They were then placed into separate cells after having their memories extracted, given a meal, and told that they would be released the next morning once a decision had been made over what to do. Harry was too emotionally drained to bother arguing, he just asked after Sirius.

Auror Montello shifted a little uncertainly, "I'm not supposed to say but... He's still in interrogation. He'll be put through the same process as you and when they're finished placed in a cell with a meal until tomorrow when everything is finalised. I can't say more than that, I hope you understand," he apologised before sliding a book through the hatch on the cell room door, "Here. I understand that England doesn't have much of a legal system, and doesn't inform its residents of what to expect but this is a basic Law book for all M.E.N immigrants. I'd give you a newspaper from the break room but they've all been had away." And with that, he left.

Harry sighed deeply, leaning back on the creaky bed in his tiny broomcloset of a cell. It was just a plain concrete box with a single bed, a sink, and a toilet. The walls were grey, there was no window, but instead a muggle style florescent light over-head, and a light switch next to his bed. The door was iron, and had a small window, no handle on the inside, and a hatch that opened inwards to a small shelf. Funny, or rather not, how his current surroundings in a goddamn holding cell were more spacious and comfortable than either his cupboard, or Dudley's second bedroom, ever were.

He hoped Sirius wouldn't cause any trouble when they didn't let him know where he was.

The Gryffindor lay down and rolled onto his side, he didn't even notice when he finally fell into an exhausted sleep that carried him through the evening and right through into the mid-morning when Auror Montello's keys clanged against the metal door as the heavy bolts slid to one side with a shriek to wake the dead. Or in this case, very tired and now mildly cranky teenagers.

"Rise and shine," the brown eyed man declared, far too cheerfully for this time in the morning. Harry contemplated whether or not he could be charged for assault if he threw the Law book he still hadn't read at the man's head. Montello was either familiar enough with teenagers, or the sleep deprived, that the first thing that he did was present him with a plate of pancakes and syrup. Harry immediately forgave him and dug in, plate balanced on his knees.

"Where's Sirius?" he asked once he was more awake, and filled with pancakes.

Auror Montello jerked a thumb at the door, "Right now? Receiving legal aid from his Defence Lawyer. He's getting a trial, good and proper, Veritaserum and those Penseive Memories we took from both of you. Once we've got you freshened up, we'll be taking a Portkey to the Court Room where you'll be giving testimony on his behalf. It'll be the same as yesterday, Veritaserum Questioning, but the Lawyers will be prompted to stay on topic, nothing about the Third Task, or your expulsion, or relatives will be pursued if brought up." He vanished the dirty plate and cutlery as he explained before grinning with far too many teeth at him, "Though if you ever want to press charges, feel free, I'll put in a formal request to be the arresting officer."

Harry grimaced, he got the impression that Auror Montello would take considerably more pleasure than was professional at throwing Vernon and Petunia Dursley behind bars in a magical prison. Good thing he had no intention of pressing charges, that was a can of worms he just didn't want to deal with.

Auror Montello talked him through what was to be expected in the Trial. They would Portkey in, he would be introduced to the Jury, Judge, and both Lawyers before being dosed with the Veritaserum, checked by a Healer to ensure it took, and then questioned first by the Prosecution, and then by the Defence before being asked to field questions from both Judge and Jury for about five minutes. Once that was done, he would be dosed with the Counter, and escorted to a side room where he would be allowed to eat lunch while the rest of the Trial took place. They would come to collect him when it came time to declare the results. Then, depending on how it went, he would either be released into the custody of his Godfather, or placed under M.E.N custody pending a review of his parents' Wills (once they were unsealed), or going into the Foster Care system.

"You'll only have a year there as you're nearly sixteen. Mostly it's the same as the live-in student deal. A student will move in with one of the elderly who will essentially ensure the house is kept in order, food on the table, and the student will continue their studies, give the homeowner some company and help with basic chores when asked. It's a pretty sweet deal, I did it myself actually. I still keep in contact with Momma Lola, I swear that woman plans to outlive me just so she can knit a doily for my grave – I insulted them once, _once_ , and she's never let me live it down," he complained fondly as he shook his head.

Truth be told, Harry wasn't worried about Sirius. He was worried about _himself_. He'd broken _so_ many laws in helping Sirius escape, he would also get Hermione in severe trouble if her involvement became known. He was pretty tense by the time Auror Montello's watch gave a soft chime to indicate the time.

The Portkey was a simple book, the Password being 'Court'.

It dumped them in a warm, oak panelled room with white walls, and a short blue carpet that he identified from most muggle schools as being itchy and not very comfortable at all. A number of darker sapphire blue chairs with similar itchy woven fabric were scattered around – and yes, they were the same ones as he recalled being outside Headmaster Brogun's office from Little Whinging Junior School.

"The Trial will be starting about now," Auror Montello told him, eyeing his watch as he stowed the little black book back in his top pocket. "You okay? You look like you're about to throw up. I'd give you a Calming Draught but they'll interfere with the effectiveness of the Veritaserum."

Harry peered up at him, "How so?" he asked curiously.

"Tangents, mainly. The Calming Draught detaches you mentally while the Veritaserum detaches your ability to censure yourself. Basically combining the two is the same as getting someone severely stoned. You'll tell the truth, but you'll also give an internal monologue about how you think seals are the coolest thing ever. It was funny the first few times, but after the third time we had a suspected rapist giving his thoughts on touching small children and how much he wanted to strangle and stomp on kittens, it was decided that interviewees shouldn't be dosed," Auror Montello explained, grimacing in pained disgust.

Harry pulled a face as well but before any response could come from that the door opened and another Auror gestured them into the other room.

It was nothing like the room he took his trial in, looking far closer to that of a muggle Court Room than any of the medieval dungeons of the British Ministry of Magic. That same oak panelling, with familiar muggle oak furnishings, a raised set of benches that several witches and Wizards sat, all of whom wearing those ornate masks he'd seen in travel magazines featuring Venice – he imagined that was so no one would know their identity. The Judge was maskless but wore a heavy hood that obscured half of his face as he sat behind his desk and watched the proceedings with eyes that couldn't be seen. Harry looked around hopefully for Sirius, but saw no sign of him. Only the Judge, the Jury, the two Lawyers, an individual he was _guessing_ was a Healer, and the security Aurors. There were no on-lookers, no reporters, nothing. It was a closed Court due to the sensitivity of the situation.

"Mister Potter, please take a seat. Aurors, the potion if you will," the Judge requested, nodding to the small chair to the left of the room. There was an odd mirror set in silver with a penseive attached to it, already swimming inside the bowl were several memories.

A cup of water, no doubt dosed with potion was presented to him by one of the security Aurors and once he'd knocked it back (noting that the cup was only half full compared to the full one he drank in his interview), the unknown individual stepped forward and swept their wand over him like one of those metal detectors at a muggle airport.

"He's under, you may begin questioning," the wizard stated before stepping back.

Harry couldn't remember what happened next very clearly, they hadn't diluted the Truth Serum very much so the rest of the Trial passed in a kind of daze with very little of it being lucid to him. The Prosecution presented several memories of various incidents from the bowl, the odd Mirror reflecting them into the air so they played out like a kind of 3d hologram in the centre of the room for everyone to witness, and questioned him about it. A handful had to be disregarded, and Harry was silenced before he could answer, things like his Invisibility Cloak (because apparently they didn't last long enough to actually be passed down father to son, so there was doubt on that front. However, the cloak clearly displayed Harry vanishing, Snape vanishing, and other people under it. No matter what it was made of, or what charms it was made with, it was an Invisibility Cloak), or the nature of his relationship with Peter Pettigrew or Severus Snape. Even through the haze it was very clear the Prosecution had no leg to stand on, but they were doing their best, as they were apparently under Oath to do so. And then the Defence came in. Harry's memory of their questioning was even hazier than the Prosecution, but he had to be silenced only once, when the subject of the Dursleys came up.

Then the unknown person who pronounced him fit for questioning stepped forward and handed him a cup with an order to drink. He did, and suddenly like his ears had popped, the world came into focus. He trembled like someone had thrown cold water over him and allowed Auror Montello to lead him out of the room and back into the one they'd arrived in.

He heard nothing the man said to him as a hot cup of tea appeared in front of him. Harry sat down and drew his knees up, clutching the cup tightly to his chest, letting it warm his tingling fingertips.

That was more stressful than he thought it would be.

 _ **000**_

Harry was brought back into the Court room an hour and a half later. Everyone was present, even Sirius, though he was kept restrained and on the otherside of the room to Harry who jerked half-heartedly in his direction, causing Auror Montello's hand on his shoulder to tighten.

"All rise!" one of the Aurors commanded as the Judge stepped into the room. Obediently, everyone climbed to their feet respectfully until he had sat down and bade them to take their seats.

He shuffled a few papers before turning to the Jury, "Have the Men and Women of the Jury reached a verdict?" he asked shortly.

One of them in a red mask got to her feet, "We have, Your Honour. We find the Defendant, Sirius Orion Black... _Not Guilty, of all Charges_."

Sirius roared in delight and Harry launched himself out of Auror Montello's grasp with a yell, vaulting over the tables and barrelling into his Godfather with a cheer, papers and files going everywhere as he latched on to the man with both arms and clung on tightly as Sirius swung the two of them around laughing tearfully.

"Order! Order, calm down, yes, yes, good news, please control yourselves Mister Black, Mister Potter!" the Judge reprimanded him half-heartedly banging the gavel down on his table until the former Gryffindors settled down to allow the Aurors to uncuff the elder, the younger still grinning wide enough to split his face as he burrowed under the older man's arm and continued to cling to his robes with both hands. "Thank you, Madame Juror. You may be seated," he told the Witch in the red mask who bowed respectfully and sat, her shoulders shaking slightly with suppressed laughter. "Yes, well, Mister Black congratulations, but there is still more to be looked into," the Judge declared, and Harry shifted, a cold feeling on the back of his neck telling him that the man was looking specifically at him.

He sighed, "A member of the DMLE will be around to pick the both of you up momentarily, you will be transferred to the Italian Ministry of Magic where a further meeting will be held to discuss living arrangements, compensation, custody, and whatever else that may be required. Court Dismissed, and again, Mister Black, congratulations. We're all very happy for you," he added with a broad smile flickering across his face as he got to his feet.

"Thank you," Sirius said, even as the Auror commanded everyone to their feet as the Judge left.

The door swung shut and Sirius was whooping again, spinning Harry around in a gleeful hug. But this time, this time all Harry could muster was a weak smile because unlike Sirius, he had caught a certain word that chilled him down to the bone and made him queasy.

Custody.

Were they going to try and take him away from Sirius?

 _ **000**_

 **And Chapter end.**


	5. Chapter 5

**Drifting Cloud**

 _ **000**_

 _After telling the magical world to go fuck themselves, Harry leaves, and declares his refusal to fight Voldemort for them. They're on their own as he rediscovers the forgotten Black Legacy and steps into a brand new world._

 **KHR/HP, mild Old Kingdom, Kingdom Hearts, , and Ocean's 11 crossovers.**

 **Slash**

 _ **000**_

 **CHAPTER FIVE**

They were Portkeyed into the Italian Ministry, which looked _very_ modern to Harry's eyes. Sirius was practically boggling at their neat and sleek surroundings, the glass walls that were everywhere, the men and women in smart muggle-style business suits and skirts, and the view of what was most _definitely_ a business estate in Rome greeted them whenever they looked outside. And yes, it was easy to do so because even the outside walls were pretty much wall to ceiling windows.

They were shown into a nice business room with a long oval shaped red-wood table, surrounded by comfy looking black leather chairs, a whiteboard on one end of the table, another one of those penseive mirror projectors, and what was very obviously a muggle Television on the other. Much bigger than any that Harry or Sirius had seen before now.

A few minutes later, a young witch stepped in with a smile and a folder under one arm.

"Mister Black, Mister Potter? Hi, I'm Lucille Abbadelli, it's nice to meet you both," she greeted, setting her folders down on the table and extending a hand to be shaken.

Sirius grinned roguishly as he took her hand, turning it upwards to kiss her knuckles instead of shaking it, "Enchanted to meet you," he purred, making Harry roll his eyes in a little dismay. Did Sirius not realise what this meeting was? Who he was so brazenly flirting with? What if she took it the wrong way and decided that Sirius wasn't a fit guardian? He had seen girls at Hogwarts pitch fits over being treated like that, if she took an irrational dislike to Sirius because she thought he was being rude or condescending towards her, or worse, that he was sexually harassing her – he swallowed and forced down his anxiousness, giving the woman a short nod, but keeping his hands to himself. He didn't trust her, so he wouldn't be shaking her hand.

She smiled, completely unaffected by their behaviour, or just too professional to show it as she sat down.

"Now, I'm sure you're wondering what need for a follow up there is now, but unfortunately, real life isn't quite so sunshine and rainbows as stories would like us to believe. There's a few issues currently being debated over, Mister Black. And unfortunately the most contested one is your Guardianship of young Mister Potter," she explained, watching as the grin fell off Sirius's face to be replaced with one of horror. She nodded, apparently pleased that he was realising the gravity of the situation.

"And does my opinion count for nothing in this decision making process?" Harry asked caustically, unable to stop himself from bristling defensively in his seat when her 'sympathetic' gaze turned to him. She was an attractive woman, that was probably one of the reasons she had been sent in to deal with them, Harry knew that people were more likely to soften to the handling of a woman when it came to delicate matters than they were to a boy or a man. Especially if they were attractive. Long curly blonde hair, legs for miles, and a light tan that perfectly complimented the grass-green colour of her eyes and the scarlet thread of her lipstick on an otherwise unpainted face. Miss Abbadelli was quite pretty, but Harry felt nothing but resentment and unease.

"Of course it does, Mister Potter. We would, if at all possible, prefer to keep you and Mister Black together. There is absolutely no doubt in our minds as to your mutual affection to one another, the problem however, resides with Mister Black's mental health, and yours too, to a smaller degree." She laced her fingers together as she observed them from over the table, no longer smiling, "Truth be told, no one has survived the British prison of Azkaban for longer than a year with their sanity in-tact. That Mister Black has managed to seemingly maintain his rationality and mental integrity for well over a decade is cause for both concern and doubt. We wish to ensure that Mister Black will not be a threat to either himself, or you, should anything occur that could trigger a traumatic flashback or incident," she explained gently.

"You sound like this is already a done deal," Sirius grit out, his posture wary, and Harry knew his Godfather well enough to tense up with him. If they had to, if they had to, they would run. Could run. They knew where the Magic Quarter was, they could buy new Wands and be out of Europe within an hour if they had to, Mouzey would give them a Portkey to one of the other properties around the world – apparently the Storm Estate was somewhere in China, and the Mist Cottage was in New Zealand.

She shook her head, "As of this moment, we want to keep you two together. Which means, unfortunately, there are going to be conditions."

"Like?" Sirius asked, still wound tight, but not moving yet. Harry hovered, hardly daring the breathe as he perched on the edge of his seat, motionless save for his eyes that flickered around the room attentively, the people outside, categorising everything he saw. Sirius hadn't been paying attention until now, Harry would have to lead them out.

"Regular check ups with a Mind Healer for one," she informed them, opening her file and sliding across a few papers. Official documentation regarding the list of terms and conditions to remain as Harry's guardian. "For both of you, I hasten to add. Mister Potter should have been receiving them much sooner after the events of the Triwizard Tournament, but apparently the British Wizarding Community have little knowledge or experience with psychological issues. Especially ones like Post Traumatic Stress."

Harry knew that one. It happened a lot in soldiers. Petunia always spoke so pityingly of those old service men she remembered from her youth, how awful it was that she often saw them living rough – which would often lead Vernon into a rant about the Government shirking their duties, immigrants coming in and stealing homes and jobs and benefits from those who needed it and deserved it more, etc, etc.

He didn't think _he_ had Post Traumatic Stress but... He couldn't deny that he had seen some bad things. Maybe seeing someone would be a good idea? Especially if it let Sirius keep hold of him... He looked at his Godfather who was almost on the verge of bolting from the room, looking torn between offended and outright confused by the idea of having to see a Mind Healer regarding his stay in Azkaban.

"I'll go if you go," Harry suggested nudging him.

Sirius shifted, startled, looking at Harry almost as if seeing him for the first time before turning his attention back to the list in front of him, and then frowning as he scanned over the details.

"I'll agree to the Mind Healer, but enforcing Harry's attendance at an Italian Wizarding School is out," he stated firmly, making Harry jerk in his seat.

"Mister Black - " Miss Abbadelli attempted only to have Sirius lift a hand to cut her off.

"He has a known Dark Lord after him, who has proven time and again that he doesn't care about hurting children in order to get to him. Trolls, and murder attempts at eleven, a Basilisk at twelve, and then this latest incident where a classmate was killed. No. Miss Abbadelli, I will not be sending my Godson to any school. He will be home schooled for the safety of _others_ as well as himself. At least in our own home I can be assured of the Wards protecting him and the people around him responsible for his care, instead of the last four years where several teachers and staff members have done their damn best to do him harm," Sirius told her firmly, his tone unyielding and cultured in a way Harry had never heard it before. THIS was the young Pureblood raised to take the reigns of the Black Family. This was the White Lion raised in the Snake Pit.

She nodded slowly, clearly thinking it over, "That is a good point, Mister Black. I cannot personally promise you anything, but I think we can get that one amended," she agreed thoughtfully, making several notes on a second sheet of paper.

Sirius nodded and continued examining the papers, "He already has a Trust Vault from Lily and James, though I don't know where the keys are, I never had access to them. Never the less, I will be providing for his needs out of my own pocket regardless, shut up Harry I want to," he added, not looking at his Godson when he opened his mouth to object to Sirius spending money on him when he could pay his own way, Harry closed his mouth with an embarrassed click of teeth as Miss Abbadelli suppressed a giggle of amusement. "As for allowing the M.E.N access to the house at any given opportunity, that is another one I will have to refuse, Miss Abbadelli. I grew up in a war, partook in one, lost my bestfriend and his wife to it. I am, unfortunately, a paranoid tosser who isn't going to allow anyone I don't know into the house where my Godson is living. It's supposed to be a safe place, and sadly, neither of us have found the Ministry to be particularly safe. I'm content to allow weekly check ups, but no, unless there is an emergency where they are summoned for whatever reason, no Ministry officials are to enter the house or the grounds without permission. That is just common decency and respect, on top of legitimate concerns of individuals under compulsions, potions, bribes, or otherwise. Amend it, if you please."

She looked uncertain at this, "Mister Black, I am unsure if I will be able to push this through," she explained.

"I'm not asking you to move heaven and earth, Miss Abbadelli. As it stands, the wards will not allow them in without permission regardless. I am merely asking you to change it from unlimited random access to once a week meetings they can _actually_ attend because they will have our permission to be on the property. The wards are old, Miss Abbadelli. Very old, and still very strong. This is, unfortunately, non-negotiable. Sky Cottage is the safest property I know of belonging to my family outside of England, hence why it was the one we chose when leaving England," he explained firmly.

"May I ask what these unannounced inspections are supposed to be for?" Harry suddenly asked, causing both sets of eyes to look at him. "What? I'm curious. From the Veritaserum questioning they already know that neither of us are interested in Dark Arts, or would want to hurt each other, so I'm confused about why they want to come and invade the house whenever they please."

Miss Abbadelli flushed a little, "When put like that..." she sighed and made a note, "I'll see what I can do, Mister Black, Mister Potter."

"Thank you," Sirius stated primly before turning his attention back to the list and nodding thoughtfully, "Well I see no problem with the rest of the conditions. Now. I will not be signing this, so I hope you can get the amended copy to me sooner rather than later."

She nodded, "Before the end of the week," she promised as she gathered the papers up, and then presented Sirius with several new ones, "Now, I'm quite sure I don't know what your next steps are, but this is a few examples of what is available to you now that you're -"

Harry zoned out somewhat as he listened with half an ear, relief coursing through him. He could stay with Sirius. Right now, they were discussing citizenship to the M.E.N, Italy in specific, talking over their rights as citizens, what they could expect from Law Enforcement. Another one of those books that Auror Montello gave him was handed over, accompanying it was several leaflets and brochures regarding Hospitals, Healer Clinics, businesses, etc. Several information fliers regarding this or that.

"I can bring Charges against Harry's relatives for Child Abuse now that I'm his Legal Guardian? HELL YES I WANT TO PRESS CHARGES!"

 _ **000**_

Trying to talk Sirius out of taking the Dursleys to task for how they treated him was an exercise in futility that Harry gave up almost as quickly as he started, he knew losing battles when he saw them, and while sometimes he would fight for the sake of the fight, this was one that he just didn't have the energy or care for. The Dursleys were no longer an issue in his life, and he was quite content to leave them that way.

The meeting didn't last long after that, just a few papers to sign, a forwarding address to give, and the return of their wands and then they were both free to go. They Apparated back to the Italian Magic quarter and picked up some food and groceries from the Food District before Apparating back to the house where Sirius promptly exploded with excitement, casting confetti charms and firework charms off here, there, and everywhere. Harry, too tired to properly work himself up, made dinner, fed the excited menace who was currently in his Padfoot form rolling through the piles of confetti and generally making an absolute mess of the dining room, and then slogged up to bed in order to have a bath and get some sleep.

The last few days had been way too eventful for him, and as much as he wanted to celebrate with Sirius, he was still... numb. Nothing had really caught up to him yet.

So he ate, showered, and crawled into his too big bed that smelt musty and old in a room that felt a little too cold from having the windows open for the last two days but thankfully no longer smelled bad. He was asleep before too long, the distant sounds of Sirius's revelry, accompanied by Grandma's happy congratulations, and Mouzey's low murmur of condescending praise in his ears, backwashed with the faint sound of waves from the beach.

The next few days were much the same, Sirius was still riding high from his exoneration and was practically _zooming_ through the house, exploring every knook and cranny. And now that Harry had had a good night's sleep, he found it very hard not to get swept up by his enthusiasm.

It didn't take long for them to find all the Hidden Rooms, and Secret Passages in the house, though Mouzey assured them there were more, they were just locked for now until Harry was due to start his training. "They lead down into the Training Basements and other assorted areas, hence why neither of you will be rummaging around down there until you're ready," the portrait informed them flatly. They left it at that, it was a sound reason and it wasn't as if he was banning him from them forever, just until it was safe for them to explore.

An owl appeared one morning, requesting a meeting at the Ministry for Sirius, no mention of Harry's attendance was made so Sirius decided to go alone, and leave Harry to his gardening – he was elbow deep in the roses pulling weeds up and pruning the bushes. If this was going to be their home, then he wanted it to be nice. And it was quite clear Kreacher wasn't going to do his job.

Harry didn't notice his leaving, he was quite absorbed in his work. By the time he was finished, Sirius had already returned and was busy overviewing the other papers he received, looking more relaxed than he had in a long time.

Then Hedwig appeared.

The familiar screech tearing through the air had Harry immediately jumping to his feet, dropping trowel and clippers as he jogged a few paces out, gloved hands shielding his eyes from the sun as he looked skyward for his bestfriend. Ah, there she was!

"Hedwig!" he called happily, lifting a hand for her.

He watched as the small white speck above dipped into a dive, cutting an arc through the air before wings spread and she landed, dainty like a feather, on his outstretched hand. She cooed happily as he brought her to eye level, nibbling on his gloved fingers as her wings fluttered to keep her balance.

"Oh, Hedwig, you're not angry at all, are you?" he murmured, stroking her breast feather's with his other hand. She puffed up and hooted before twittering and crab walking up his arm, being very careful of her claws on his bare-flesh, and headbutted him gently, like a cat would. She twittered again, fussing with his hair before clamping her claws down and tucking her head under her wing – clearly with every intention of going to sleep.

Harry could only chuckle weakly, relief, gratitude, and guilt churning in the pit of his stomach, "Looks like I'm finished gardening for the day. C'mon, let's go inside. I set your perch up in my room, you can nap there and I'll bring you some treats and mice for when you wake up. How does that sound?" he asked, receiving a sleepy coo from his favourite girl in the world.

 _ **000**_

Sirius got his terms. It was apparently a kind of test for the Social Workers to see if he would put his possession of Harry's Custody above Harry's personal safety and well being. That he was willing to argue against their demands, even rework them into better ones that would still allow them to happen while maintaining Harry's safety really won him brownie points with the Administration. The paperwork was signed and sealed and filed within the day of that meeting. But that wasn't _just_ what the meeting was about.

The story had to break the Newspapers, there were the articles and the fall out to talk him through, then the other aspects that would hopefully make his life easier here in Italy (which they hoped he was planning to stay in, he assured them he had little intention of moving and Harry was already pretty determined to make their current house a home, he didn't want to uproot his Godson so soon). They were encouraged to get new wands, as there was a Trace on Harry's still connected to the British Ministry that would alert them to his presence when he used it, and Sirius's was a wand he picked up at Grimmauld Place, not actually his own. Lists upon lists of tutors for Harry, where to go for standardized tests, advice, if there were problems with any of the tutors, etc. Even recommended bookshops and the like. He was however barred from being Harry's tutor himself as he wasn't accredited with the M.E.N like all home tutors were. They also questioned him further about some worrying incidents that came up in their Questioning – for instance, Child Abuse Laws in England, what the hell? Where were the social workers and the department of Social Care _doing_ in the British Ministry? What do you mean they _don't exist_?

Sirius returned to the house happier than a dog covered in muck running through a field of tall grass. The Dursleys were already under arrest, currently being questioned under Veritaserum, with penseive memories being reviewed and compared to those submitted by Harry and his own testimony. They were going to be bringing in Vernon's sister Marge as well for her part in it, allowing her dogs to maul Harry as a child (that Ripper monster was going to be put down regardless of her sentencing, her farm was going to be shut down and the dogs sent to reputable breeders, or rescue centres, the pups as well). So far, he was told, they were already inexcusably guilty, but right now they were digging to see how far the abuse extended so they could better aid Harry in his sessions with the Mind Healer – which he was reminded that he would also be attending.

Neither Sirius, nor Harry, would even have to sit in the Trial that would send Mister, Missus, and Ms Dursley to prison. Dudley would be placed within the custody of his Godparents, a pair of muggles Harry had never met, who lived in Liverpool. Dudley would continue attending Smeltings, continue his Boxing, but he would never see Harry again. And by the time either of his parents got out of prison, even with early release for good behaviour, he would be in his mid-to-late thirties, and by that point able to have drawn his own conclusion on events and treat them as he wished.

Two days later, the story hit the papers.

Blazing headlines of:  
 **SIRIUS BLACK CLEARED OF ALL CHARGES  
HARRY POTTER ILLEGALLY EXPELLED FROM BRITISH SCHOOL  
VOLDEMORT RETURNS – VERITASERUM AND PENSEIVE PROOF  
CORRUPTION IN THE BRITISH MINISTRY OF MAGIC**

And a small side article, somewhere on the seventeenth page, **Muggle family Tried and found Guilty of Abusing Magical Child in their care**. Harry hadn't noticed, and Sirius hadn't clued him in; the Dursleys were a chapter of his life that he had closed and had no intention of ever opening again.

Every single paper in the countries under M.E.N were distributing these articles at the same time, on the same day, with exactly the same wording. Everything else was different, but those five articles were word for word exact, in order to protect Harry and Sirius's current residence should the Dark Lord go looking for them. They used stock photographs of the two of them, Sirius as he stood with Lily and James at their wedding, or his mugshot from Azkaban. Harry they used pictures from the Triwizard Tournament. The only picture they didn't take from stock was the one sneaky snap that one of the Court staff got when Sirius was announced Not-Guilty, it showed Harry launching himself across the room to hug him, the two of them spinning around laughing in relief and joy.

Neither of them had any idea the chaos this was causing in the Order when Charlie Weasley Owled the paper to his parents. Harry, at that particular moment in time, was dealing with a slimy little problem Hedwig had _oh so_ _kindly_ left on his bedroom pillow when he got out of the shower.

When he had been younger, her bringing him little gifts of dead mice was both cool and very sweet once he realised why she kept presenting her kills to him. That she cared enough for him to do so had filled him with love and affection for her. But now, with the tiny squirming octopus on his pillow, getting the thing wet and leaving slime trails as red rubbery limbs coiled and glided over the fabric in a panic, now he was less than appreciative.

Quickly yanking on some pants and jeans, he scooped up the slimy little thing with a grimace, "Hedwig, we really have to talk about your gift giving!" he complained loudly to the thoroughly pleased with herself owl as she puffed up on her perch, eyes sliding shut as she cooed, long and low. He pulled a face and quickly made his way outside, oh god it was cold and slimy and wet, and moving. It felt like he was holding cold sentient overcooked spaghetti covered in oil. Occasionally he felt something latch onto the skin of a thumb, or his palm, scrape across it like a cat's tongue, or latch on like he'd felt worms do once or twice when he was younger and gardening without gloves.

He quickly moved through the house to the gardens where he jogged towards the small wooden stair-case going down the cliff to the beach below. He was assuming this little critter came from the coral just off the shore, though how Hedwig _caught_ it was anyone's guess.

He paced across the sand, grimacing a little when he had to pick his way carefully through the uncomfortable dried clumps of seaweed, sending sand-fleas scattering as he stepped. It was a good thing he had no problem with bugs because the way the ground seemed to move as he traversed it was creepy, even for him.

Stumbling into the surf, he ignored how it soaked through his jeans and waded in until it was up to his hips and then gently dipped the little octopus into the water, wiggling his fingers as best he could to dislodge it from them.

"C'mon, leggo, you're free now," he muttered, giving his hand a little shake.

However, instead of letting go of his fingers in order to swim back into deeper waters, a pair of tiny green eyes blinked up at him (weird, he wasn't aware they even had eyelids). The tiny tentacles on his fingers tightened and the thing squinted up at him, little bulbous head puffing up momentarily like Hedwig would when she was pleased before deflating.

Harry stared.

It... was kinda cute, he guessed...

But regardless, "Seriously, little guy, let go. You can't stay with me, I've got no where to keep you and not the faintest idea of how to take care of you," he explained, giving his hand a hard shake, even going to far as to gently grasp it by the bulbous head and give it a little tug.

It _squeaked_. A tiny little high-pitched noise that immediately had Harry letting it go of its head in case he'd hurt it.

The octopus squirmed and began to slither up Harry's arm, keeping a tight grip on him, small suckers sticking to his skin, leaving tiny red marks in its wake.

"Oh come on now, stop it," Harry protested, pushing a finger under the tiny thing and trying to lever it off and away from his skin.

It squeaked again, this time in what was distinct displeasure. Tentacles latched onto the finger in question and tightened, growing hot. Harry squawked, trying to yank his finger away, taking a startled step backwards when the thing turned purple and fell away – tightening its grip on his finger as it continued going down and down and -

rolled back up?

He goggled.

Had the octopus just turned into a purple yo-yo?

…...Nope.

"SIRIIIIUUUUUUUUUUUUS!" he bellowed, turning on heel and sprinting back to the house, looking positively comical with his hands thrown in the air – squeaking purple yo-yo trailing through the air, hanging from his finger.

His godfather was just as freaked out by the strangely shapeshifting octopus that turned into a silver, octopus themed ring when Harry showed it to him. The Marauder practically shrieked and back-peddled at great speed away from it (apparently he had traumatic memories of the Giant Squid at Hogwarts if the incoherent, confused, screaming at 'James' to put the fucking monster back in the lake were any indication).

It was Mouzey, drawn by the hysterical screaming of his Heir's Godfather, who identified the small creature.

"She is one of my daughter's little experiments into Boggarts, Familiars, and our family's particular in-born abilities. Hm, I wasn't aware that any of the subjects had managed to escape," he mused, peering through the canvas at the once again yo-yo on Harry's finger that was squeaking as it rolled up and down of its own accord, seemingly having a grand old time. "Hold it up would you? Hmm, oh-ho? My my, it seems as though the clever little beasts have been breeding with the local marine population. This young lady, yes she's female, is, for all intensive purposes, a breeding experiment."

Sirius groaned from where he was hiding behind a table, "What _else_ has this family had their sticky fingers into?" he complained, sounding pained as he eyed the yo-yo with worry.

Mouzey scoffed, "Wouldn't you like to know," he dismissed, ignoring Sirius's reply of ' _Yes I_ _would_ _like to bloody well know!_ '. "She seems healthy enough, fairly young. You're perhaps the first magically inclined individual she's ever had contact with. She's already taken to feeding off your magic, so I suppose congratulations are in order! Your second Familiar, and a magical one at that!" he praised, clapping without being the least bit sarcastic or condescending about it.

Harry wasn't happy though, "How do I take care of her though? Can't – I have Hedwig, I don't need a second Familiar! She's cute and all - " he ignored Sirius's spluttering howl of objection, " - but surely she'd be happier in the ocean where she came from, right?"

Mouzey chuckled, "Your first Familiar, Hedwig was it? Hedwig brought her to you, didn't she?" he asked, watching the boy nod as the little yo-yo once again rolled back up and turned into its original scarlet octopus form, slithering up between his fingers to squeak and latch onto his wrist. "Consider it a not-so-subtle hint from the Lady in question. Besides, she shouldn't be too difficult to take care of. She is half-Boggart after all. A simple cold-water aquarium, fresh or salt water it doesn't matter, a few rocks, a little cave, she'll be happy as a clam. Heck, a damp cloth and a small desk-draw works just as well. As for food? She'll eat anything. Primarily your own magic, but vegetation, meat, fish, even objects. Goodness, feed her a bicycle and she'll be able to transform into one. It is a unique perk we discovered in the fifth generation of the breeding experiments when they lost their Legilimency abilities."

"A bike?" Harry echoed weakly as he gently ran a fingertip across the shapeshifter's bulbous head, she puffed up and slowly deflated with a wet squee-ing sound of satisfaction and happiness.

"WAIT?! THE BLACKS CREATED _SHAPESHIFTERS_?!" Sirius roared from the corner, eyes practically popping out of his skull.

"That is what I said, isn't it?" Mouzey sneered, "Do keep up."

Sirius spluttered while Harry gently lifted the octopus from his wrist, she wound her tentacles around his fingers with a slow deflating squee, green eyes blinking up at him with what had to be the worst, yet somehow cutest, puppy dog eyes he had ever seen. How the hell an _octopus_ managed it, he wasn't going to question. She was a shapeshifter. He didn't think he _needed_ an explanation for how she pulled it off.

His resolve crumbled.

"I guess I need to clear off the top of my chest-of-draws," he muttered, wondering how large of an aquarium she would need, and whether or not he should get some other fish to keep her company.

 _ **000**_

 **Oodako's a shapeshifter tooooo.**


	6. Chapter 6

**Drifting Cloud**

 _ **000**_

 _After telling the magical world to go fuck themselves, Harry leaves, and declares his refusal to fight Voldemort for them. They're on their own as he rediscovers the forgotten Black Legacy and steps into a brand new world._

 **KHR/HP, mild Old Kingdom, Kingdom Hearts, , and Ocean's 11 crossovers.**

 **Slash**

 _ **000**_

Please note, I got permission from Reighost for this chapter's contents.

 **CHAPTER SIX**

 **IMPORTANT FUCKING NOTE** **– DON'T SKIP  
** _Hi, sorry to interrupt suddenly, but you guys need an update. I'm not on facebook anymore. And those of you who do not use your real names on there may be at risk too. Some shit cake has denounced the fact that I don't use my real name, meaning that I'm now suspended from my account and now have to provide all of my personal information: Passport, driving licence, and CREDIT CARD in order to log back in. So I've deleted my account. Fuck facebook in the eye. So yeah, if you follow me on there and are suddenly confused about why my account is no longer showing, and that the entire seven years-plus of content I have is no longer visible, you can thank the fucking cunt whistle that reported me. 8)_

 _On with the fic._

He found it again as he was clearing off the top of his chest-of-draws. The silver Penseive Catalogue.

He had been moving it around his room since they reached Sky Cottage, always picking it up and meaning to explore it but then being distracted by something, or telling himself he would do it later after he did this, or that. Besides, he didn't HAVE a Penseive in his room so it wasn't like he could look at them alone – and – and he was procrastinating and finding excuses again. He sighed, setting it back on the chest-of-draws and looking down at his new familiar.

Green eyes peered back up at him.

"You don't mind if we put your Aquarium on pause, do you? I get the feeling that if I don't deal with that now, I never will," he told the Octopus, trying not to feel silly, at least until she puffed up and let out another long wet squee'ing noise. "Right. I'm going to assume that means okay. Let's get you a wet cloth and find somewhere small and cramped to put you away until we can get everything together. Grandpa said you'd be okay with that, right?" he questioned going into the bathroom. She squee'd slowly at him again from his wrist and Harry sighed, wishing not for the first time that he could speak to an animal that _wasn't_ a snake. Being able to talk to Hedwig would be awesome. Maybe he could train her? Ravens and crows could talk, so could parrots. Hedwig was definitely smarter than any of them... it bore looking into.

But not right now, he reminded himself as he wet a cloth under the sink and returned to his room. He chose one of the small draws in the desk he got from downstairs, pulling it out and padding it with the wet cloth before allowing his new girl to crawl her way into it. "This is okay right?" he asked, and got a squelching noise in return before scarlet tentacles reached out to grab the desk and close the draw herself. He stared at it for a moment in silence, "That answers that," he muttered before turning and grabbing the Penseive Catalogue.

Time to face the music.

Actually, could she even breathe in there? Should he leave her some food?

He was halfway to the kitchen before he paused, frowning at himself. Mouzey said she had been feeding on his magic earlier, so she didn't technically _need_ to eat regular food. She could, she would even enjoy it, but her primary source of nourishment now came from him so why had he suddenly -

Slowly, he made his way back to his room. He was just putting off looking at the Catalogue again. He was scared of what he would find, it had his magical signature, which meant there were some memories of his in there – what on earth could have been so bad that they were removed, but not the memories of Dementors trying to suck his soul out, of killing a Basilisk, of Quirrel turning to ash under his fingers? He didn't really want to know, but at the same time, he had to know.

He hovered uncertainly in front of the innocuous, innocent seeming Catalogue.

Did he really even _want_ to look at this horrible memory? Would it change him irrevocably? He... didn't think he even wanted to look at it anymore with that thought in min-

 _What. The. Fuck. Was he_ _THINKING_?!

"It's charmed," he realised, feeling dizzy. Charmed to deter anyone from looking at its contents, either through their own doubts, or reminding them of other things that needed doing. How many times had he told himself to look at this only to be distracted by looking at the clock and realising it was time for dinner, or found it after returning to his room to look for something and thought that he had to open it up, only to tell himself that he would do it later because he came in there for a reason? Even now, even now he had decided to open it up and get a look, only to be distracted near enough three times before it overplayed its hand. He was a Gryffindor, that last play only revealed the flaw in his thinking, in what that thing was doing to him.

"Oh, I'm definitely cracking you open now," he growled, snatching it up and storming off to Sirius's room where he knew there was a penseive. If someone had charmed it like that, it meant there was stuff in there they didn't want _anyone_ to look at, didn't want anyone to get suspicious of.

"Sirius? I need to use your Penseive!" he shouted through the wood as he knocked. A moment later, his Godfather had it open, looking confused and worried.

"My Penseive – oh!" he blinked, spotting the Catalogue. "Now? I'm in the middle of some paperwork about - "

"Yes now. The thing is charmed. If we don't do it now then we probably won't _ever_ ," he declared,

"But they're urgent!"

"How urgent?" Harry demanded, eyes narrowing on the slightly too wide pupils of his Godfather's eyes.

"Next... week... Damn. Get in there, let's get this over with," he declared stepping back and opening the door proper.

His room was significantly tidier than it was, a few more bikini-clad models had been added to the walls, along with several framed pictures of Order members, Harry's parents, and other people he didn't recognise. The bookshelves were filled with not only books but also models of bikes, Quidditch Players, signed Quaffles, and the like. Sirius had apparently been a bit of a packrat, and managed to reclaim a great deal of his former belongings after he was arrested (likely as not his home had been warded and left abandoned until he returned).

The Dog Animagus gathered up the Ministry papers on his desk, shuffling them into a pile and tucking them into one of his desk-draws before opening the cupboard and taking out his penseive. He set it onto the table and held a hand out expectantly for the Catalogue. Obediently, Harry turned it over and watched as the man opened the clasp and revealed the multitude of memories currently glowing and drifting like hazy silver smoke in their phials.

"Right. Seems like they haven't been labelled effectively, so let's do this the quick and nasty way," Sirius declared before yanking one of Harry's hairs out.

"Ow! Hey!" he yelped, slapping a hand to the side of his head, scalp stinging.

"No pain, no gain," the Marauder offered, shooting Harry with a grin as he wrapped the hair around his wand (which reminded Harry even further that they had yet to visit the Wand Maker in the Italian Magic Quarter to get their own replaced). "Alright, this is a little known identification Spell, it'll light up anything be it blood, hair, fingerprints, magical signatures, even urine and semen, when used – as long as you have a sample of the person you're trying to identify. Hence the hair," he explained, gesturing to the single black strand wrapped around the dark wood of his wand.

He flicked his wand over the Catalogue and said a word that Harry hadn't a hope in hell of ever being able to pronounce, the hair around the wand glowing a bright gold.

Harry stared in dismay as the majority of the Catalogue lit up with golden light.

"That's... a lot of memories," Sirius gaped.

"Did you do the spell right?" Harry asked doubtfully.

Sirius hummed and carefully unwound Harry's still golden hair from the wand and set it to oneside, he then tugged a strand of hair from his own head and wrapped that around the wood, repeating the spell again. The golden glow in the Catalogue died, and instead, a kind of velvet blueberry colour lit the strand of hair and a small handful of phials in the Catalogue.

Sirius blanched, "I definitely know that's my Magical Signature colour," he croaked weakly, more surprised than Harry to see the colour within the Catalogue.

Harry carefully spun through the little racks and picked out the blue coloured phials, setting them to one side. They didn't bother counting them as Sirius continued to stare down at the small collection with what was fast approaching betrayal and denial on his face.

"I must have gotten the spell wrong," he decided.

Harry frowned, "Maybe. But either way, they had your Magical Signature, or at least one very much like yours. We should give them a look."

"Harry!" Sirius immediately scolded, looking stern and severe in a way he _never_ had before, "Looking at someone else's memories is unforgivably rude! You should be ashamed of yourself for even suggesting it!" he snapped.

Harry's eyebrow shot to his hairline, really, _that_ coming from Sirius?

He continued to stare at the man who continued to scowl, and then paused, confusion slowly filtering into his expression, quickly followed by horror. "The charms are still - " he realised before grabbing one of the nearest Phials and dumping it into the Penseive.

He shoved his face into the whispy white liquid and went still as a statue.

Harry stared for a moment, half expecting him to get sucked in properly but he didn't. He just stayed there, face down in the Penseive, looking pretty dumb in all honesty. If this situation weren't so serious, it would have actually been comical. Maybe he should go find a camera so they could enjoy it later when things weren't so grim?

Harry paused, and then shot a foul look at the Catalogue. Fucking charms.

No. He was going to stay here, and wait until they'd gone through every single one of those phials.

 _ **000**_

There were no words.

Absolutely none.

Sirius and Harry sat listlessly on the floor of the Master bedroom, memory phials scattered around them, Penseive in the middle of the floor. The two of them too shocked to speak. Too horrified to move.

What had they just – how had he – _why_?

Dumbledore.

He had been adjusting, changing, stealing their memories, erasing them, manipulating them. He had... changed _everything_.

Harry rolled his head, looking over at Sirius, feeling a queer twisting in his stomach as he tried to digest what they had seen, what they had learned. How Dumbledore had fucked them over so much it went far past no longer funny to hysterically horrifying and right into numb accepting shock.

"So..." he rasped, "You're my Dad."

 _ **000**_

 **Chapter end. I cut it off there despite the chapter being so short simply because MUAHAHAHAA PLOT TWIST!**

I got permission from Reighost to use the memories from the Penseive Catalogue in Drifting, most of them we came up with together but it's still polite to ask XDDD

 **Also, there's a reason for Dumbledore being a giant shit cake. No I'm not telling you right now. I don't give a crap if you hate it. Deal with it. It is my story, you'll learn why all this crap is happening later.**


	7. Chapter 7

**Drifting Cloud**

 _ **000**_

 _After telling the magical world to go fuck themselves, Harry leaves, and declares his refusal to fight Voldemort for them. They're on their own as he rediscovers the forgotten Black Legacy and steps into a brand new world._

 **KHR/HP, mild Old Kingdom, Kingdom Hearts, , and Ocean's 11 crossovers.**

 **Slash**

 _ **000**_

Please note, I got permission from Reighost for this chapter's contents.

 **CHAPTER SEVEN**

 **Note: I'm back on facebook, got a new account and an author page. So if you want forewarning on updates, access to pictures, livestreams of games, future scenes, etc, go give my page a Like. Link is on my profile.**

The changes to Sirius's memories mainly revolved around Lily and James, around Peter and Snape and Remus.

Finding out Remus was a werewolf on the train when his silver Heir ring burnt him, finding out his story and advising him on how best to handle his inner werewolf – the Blacks may have been prejudiced assholes, but they were nothing if not meticulous in how to make the best of a bad situation. Being turned into a werewolf was only bad if you _let_ it be. Trying to stay friendly with his cousins at Hogwarts only to be _forcefully_ discouraged by older Gryffindors (he had always remembered it as Slytherins before now). Catching Snape trying to get down into the Shrieking Shack more than once and always managing to drag him back, only one time to get stunned and shoved down first, used as a shield and then abandoned when Snape realised the end of the tunnel was a Werewolf. James rescuing _him_ not Snape from being turned. James trying to kill Snape for it.

Snape using an Unforgivable on James, the Crucio.

Sirius using the Cruciatus on Snape.

Dumbledore changing their memories and Lily looking at them with such confusion when they told her – because Snape had been her bestfriend and she deserved to know, and Sirius apologised for tricking him into going down into the tunnel, never remembering the multiple times he had _stopped_ the idiot. Never knowing that Peter had told her everything before Dumbledore caught up with him.

Memories of nearly getting decapitated by a vengeful Hufflepuff whose mother had been killed by a maskless Death Eater – a Black. Of having to defend himself from the heartbroken girl and trying not to harm her.

Memories of kissing both Lily and James after Hogwarts. Of nights lounging around on sofas joking about how the only woman in the world who could keep Sirius in line was Lily, that old joke about Lily marrying the both of them and keeping them in line.

Actually doing it.

All three of them. Even though it wasn't strictly legal, even though Lily and James were _already_ married to each other.

They went to the Druid, just them, Remus, and Peter. And Sirius got married. Twice. And both Lily and James got married again – to him.

A year. A year of a happy marriage, of loving the two most important people in his life.

And then Lily's pregnancy.

Dumbledore wanting to know who the father was, the Paternity Charms, Sirius's name appearing. Their joy. The potions and charms to make Harry as much a son of James as he was of Sirius. Their child, their son, their beautiful baby boy.

Of telling Hagrid to give him his son, that he would take care of him. Of being told no, going to Dumbledore to demand an explanation about why he wasn't allowed to be with his own damn son – of the _Imperio_ that settled on his mind like a shroud of mist, that brought him to Peter, that had him laugh helplessly and remain silent, unable to defend himself when the Aurors came. Refusing to answer any questions. And when he came so close to breaking it, to getting free -

Dumbledore appeared, and told him that his part in this was over. That the world would never know that he was Harry's father, that he was a decoy, that Peter was a traitor. He was nothing more than a good friend. No one would ever know, ever remember, the vows of loyalty and love and protection he gave on his wedding day to both his husband and his wife.

Sirius didn't just lose his bestfriend that day.

He lost his family, his memories, his life.

He could be forgiven for the tears that followed when Harry's words registered on his ears.

 _ **000**_

Harry's memories... extended as far back as his early childhood.

The extent of it all was... ridiculous. Impossible. But blatant. Obvious in the phials scattered around him. Over three hundred memories. Dumbledore hadn't just erased his memories, he had _stolen_ them. The _Obliviate_ unlike most assumed, did not erase or delete memories, it merely sealed them away. Pushed them to a part of the mind where they could be over written. But they never truly vanished, or left. So Dumbledore pulled them out entirely and stored them in Penseive phials – he removed every trace from their minds of the memory by rewriting the old memory. It was only his own OCD that meant he kept them, just in case it became important or needed later.

Memories of Petunia being more abusive, more violent towards him. Breaking his fingers, slapping him, throwing hot water from the kettle onto him, that frying pan he recalled narrowly ducking – he didn't. Memories of Vernon abandoning him in London, in Birmingham, in Liverpool, Edinborough – living out on the streets, meeting Mundungus who brought him as far as Knockturn Alley and a place run by a Vampire who poked and prodded him before declaring that he was too skinny for the price. Dumbledore. And then awakening in his cupboard with a vague timelapsed memory of being punished and locked in his cupboard for a week. Of running into Fenrir Greyback on the full moon in a small village that Vernon had dumped him in by chance somewhere in Cornwall – Harry never did get the name of the place – Dumbledore blasting the werewolf away and snatching him up. Waking up in his cupboard thinking he was being punished again.

Police, Social Workers, nosy neighbours, Mrs Figg even, concerns over his health and welfare, all the questions and statements and the teachers getting suspicious, and then stopping as Dumbledore removed the problem. Petunia compulsed to stop hurting him, Vernon compulsed to stop ditching him, Dudley compulsed to stop _bragging_ to everyone about what they were doing to Harry.

Harry spelled and compulsed into forgetting his magic, to stop experimenting with it. He had memories of learning how to generate fire, of teleporting, of speaking to snakes and then later to birds, of making plants grow faster, of summoning food and vanishing things, of hitting Dudley with hexes when his bullying got too much, of setting Aunt Petunia on _fire_ when trying to defend himself.

Of one of Vernon's work colleagues coming over for a Christmas Party and sneaking into Dudley's second room (where Harry had been forced to spend the night so no one got suspicious), the man touching him and his hands blistering as if dunked in hot oil. Screaming and screaming as Harry panicked and grabbed his face, shoving him off, and screaming himself in terror as the man writhed across Dudley's bedroom floor shrieking like Professor Quirrel. No one knew what had happened, Dumbledore had adjusted their memories, they all just believed he had an accident at work and the damage done to his face and hands was because of that.

Raiding the Dursleys for food, stealing from Aunt Petunia's purse, fixing and then selling Dudley's broken toys, doing garden work for the neighbours to earn money for food, doing other children's homework so he could share their lunch, spending hours upon hours in the local library reading books on advanced chemistry and maths, on art and sports, fantasy and sci-fi books about heroes and villains and good and evil and all the greys inbetween.

Remembering when Narcissa Malfoy appeared on the doorstep and introduced herself as his cousin and offered to take him away, only for Dumbledore to appear before he could even agree and attack her.

That was just before Hogwarts.

Throwing himself into his studies, combing through books in the library, staying up late at night and sneaking into the library after hours. Running across the school rooftops. Kicking the crap out of Ron when he caught the red head bullying Hermione because he _hated_ bullies. Going to Madam Pomfrey about the Dursleys and ending up at St Mungos for check ups. Letters to the Ministry about emancipation, other family members, letters, endless letters to try and find a way of wriggling himself free from the Dursleys. Fluffy and befriending the massive dog. Managing to get on Mrs Norris's goodside using every cat-trick he'd ever cultivated with Mrs Figg's less pleasant companions. A group of seventh year Slytherins dragging him into a side room, curses, Unforgivables, they'd nearly killed him. The Mirror of Erised, he was free, watched as the Dursleys were escorted into a police van behind him, watched as he stood in another country laughing and happy, he was older and holding a child, a shadowy figure of indeterminate gender beside him with an arm around his waist. Quirrel, that same violet fire from Grimmauld Place that flared through his body so strongly that the man's face crumpled beneath his fingers when he grabbed him to try and push him away, his fingers shattering the bone and flesh beneath them as if it were little more than paper constructs. Screaming and screaming and screaming. Of violet fire bathing the room and splitting his own head open, a screaming black haze bursting out of him and vanishing into screeching vapour. Dumbledore, pressing something to his head and chanting foul black words that made his ears hurt.

Running away during the summer, only to get dragged back. Applying to no less than five different magical schools throughout England and Europe, only for Dobby to steal them, and Dumbledore to destroy them. Mr and Mrs Mason and the Dursleys dinner party – and how Harry had forcibly broken himself out of his room more than once and run away, only to get dragged back and thrown in. Staying at the Weasleys and catching Ginny trying to put something in his drink, confronting her and learning that Love Potions were a thing. Lockhart being creepy. Going to Professor McGonagall about him, going to Flitwick about him, going to Dumbledore about him. Noticing Ginny acting strangely and going to Percy about it. Getting attacked by some of the older Gryffindors who thought he was Slytherin's Heir due to his Parselmouth abilities. Noticing Ginny acting strangely and going to Professor McGonagall about it. Running away from Hogwarts semi-successfully, getting as far as Diagon Alley before getting dragged back. Noticing Ginny acting strangely and telling Professor Dumbledore about it. Getting expelled from Hogwarts by the Ministry of Magic who ' _Must be Seen to Do Something_ '. Setting Lockhart on fire when he got inappropriately grabby. Being put under _Crucio_ by a seventh year Hufflepuff whose younger sister had been petrified. Noticing Ginny acting strangely and stunning her, dragging her to Madam Pomfrey and then to St Mungos. Selecting Ancient Runes and Arithmancy instead of Divination and Care of Magical Creatures. A screaming match with Ron about being a Parselmouth and getting shoved down a flight of stairs, cracking his head open on the stones. Killing the Basilisk, not with Gryffindor's Sword, but his bare hands and the same violet fire – his head splitting open and greasy black magic dribbling between his fingers, almost indistinguishable from the ink that came from the diary that he had forced the fire into so hard it exploded. Dumbledore, pressing something to his head and chanting foul black words that made his ears hurt.

Climbing out of Uncle Vernon's car at a set of traffic lights before they even got home from picking him up at the Train Station and just running as far as he could. Snatching Marge's walking stick when she hit him with it and bringing it down over her head and shoulders as hard as he could. Ripper attacking him, everyone else laughing and encouraging the dog. Sirius actually talking to him the night he ran away, wiping away the frightened tears on his cheeks and trying to sooth him. Sirius telling him the truth and warning him about Peter Pettigrew, even showing him the newspaper clipping and assuring him that no matter what he heard that year, he would never hurt him. Working for Florean Fortescue during the summer holidays, waiting tables, getting paid for his efforts, being told that there would always be a job, even a room above the shop, for him if he ever had need of it. Mr Fortescue teaching him that in heavily magical areas no one knows who uses what spell, telling him that you don't _need_ a wand for magic, that it is simply a tool the Ministry uses to regulate and keep track of its citizens. Mr Fortescue taking him to a chap in Knockturn Alley to get a second wand. Dementors on the Train, hearing his mother screaming, Petunia's words, all the memory charms simultaneously breaking under the stress of the creature drudging up changed, yet traumatic memories. Catching Hermione with the timeturner. Studying Ancient Runes in his own time. Discovering Charter Magic. Catching Hermione with the timeturner. Catching Ron bullying the first year Slytherins and Hufflepuffs. Catching Hermione with the timeturner. Exploring the Chamber of Secrets and discovering the extensive network of tunnel-like pipes throughout the school. Finding the House-elf Tunnels. Catching Hermione with the timeturner. Dementors trying to corner him at Hagrid's house. Knocking the Wolfsbane out of Professor Lupin's hands and watching it melt a wall much to both of their shock. His Patronus form being Padfoot, _not_ Prongs. Snape casting the Cruciatus on him after they'd helped Sirius escape with Buckbeak.

That summer was perhaps the only one where none of his memories were tweaked. Not even the ones of the Quidditch World Cup were adjusted. But that year... long, pointless, fracturing fights with Ron and Hermione. Hours spent in the library researching spells, potions, hexes, anything and everything that would give him a chance. Going to Professor Moody for extra lessons, permission slips into the Restricted Section. Getting attacked by Hufflepuff students. Catching Barty Crouch Jr raiding Snape's potion supplies. Asking Professor McGonagall to transfer into Ancient Runes and Arithmancy. Sitting at the top of the Astronomy Tower and contemplating the long drop. Climbing out of his window with his trunk on his broom and just flying off. Talking to Viktor Krum in the Library. Learning French and Bulgarian. Asking Headmistress Maxime about transferring to Beauxbatons. Being advised against transferring to Durmstrang by Viktor. Playing Quidditch against him. Catching Moody in the process of turning back into Barty Crouch Jr. More hours spent in the Library. Finding the Room of Requirement. Refusing Ron's hand of friendship again after the First Task. Being asked to the Yule Ball by Viktor. Being dosed with a Love Potion and becoming obsessed with Daphne Greengrass, Slytherin. Catching Professor Moody turning back into Barty Crouch Jr. That violet fire leaping into his hands as he confronted Voldemort in the Graveyard. His forehead splitting open with greasy black magic. Harry suggesting to Cornelius Fudge that he would take Veritaserum to prove Voldemort's return – Dumbledore stunning the Minister and then Harry himself. Dumbledore, pressing something to his head and chanting foul black words that made his ears hurt.

He wondered if his being expelled, his wand snapped, and then storming away from the Ministry would have been ' _corrected_ ' if he and Sirius hadn't managed to escape the country quickly enough.

 _(Had Ron always been like Malfoy and Harry had never noticed? Or had he been spelled not to notice?)_

 _(He contemplated suicide?)_

 _(Viktor Krum had asked_ _him_ _to the ball, not Hermione? Why change that?)_

 _(Some random Slytherin girl dosed him with Love Potion? Why?)_

 _(Snape tried to kill Remus!)_

 _(Charter Magic?)_

Harry shuddered from his place on the floor, Sirius's broken sobbing filling his ears.

Regardless, they had been used and abused and twisted beyond compare. And they couldn't be the only ones, he realised. Ron would have remembered their fights, he would have brought them up again, thrown them in his face. Hermione would have demanded answers from him if he'd been in the library, she would have wanted to know. She wouldn't have attended the Yule Ball with Viktor as if he had asked her. Viktor would have been just as confused. Petunia and Vernon as well, Dudley too.

The Aurors needed to be informed.

If Dumbledore had been managing to pull off this kind of micro-management of key individuals he thought would be of use in the future, then he wasn't going to be going down easily, and having the Dursleys arrested would only – Harry scrambled to his feet and began to gather the phials, carefully slotting them back into the catalogue and grabbing the Penseive, setting it onto Sirius's table.

He then paused, looking down at the crying man.

At... at his father.

Harry knelt down and wrapped his arms around him, wheezing a little when the man shifted and crushed him into his arms, hugging tightly, sobbing into his neck. Harry held him just as tightly, dry eyed, and filled with a simmering rage that turned his eyes violet.

Albus Dumbledore would pay.

 _ **000**_

Sirius cried himself out soon enough and Harry quickly got him into bed before taking the Penseive catalogue and rushing out of the house. He summoned a taxi at the front gate, barking a short command to take him to the Italian Ministry. Thankfully the Italians kept up with appearances and in front of their offices was a carpark, the taxi driver took him in and even dropped him off outside the Auror offices, a separate building from the main Ministry Building. Harry asked him to stick around, he didn't have any money right now but when they got back to the house he would pay him, it was a bit too much of an emergency to rush around looking for his Go- his fa- for Sirius's money sack.

Once inside the building he quickly made his way to the front desk, a young man sat behind it with a headset answering a phonecall and redirecting it to a specific department (Harry was surprised they had phones in all honesty, how did they get them to work?).

The young man smiled at him, "How can I help?" he asked.

"I need to speak to the guys in charge of the Harry Potter/Sirius Black case? It's urgent and I have new information," he told the young man in an undertone.

His smile was plastic though, unmoving, "I'm sorry sir, but that's not possible. Italy hasn't had anything to do with Harry Potter or Sirius Black," he quoted apologetically.

Harry gave him a look. Really? Stood in front of him and he didn't -

"Could you contact Auror Montello then?" Harry demanded shortly.

The young man nodded, turning to the computer he had behind the receptionist desk, "Of course, one moment please sir." A few keyboard clacks later and he was tapping a phone and sitting back. There was a moment of silence and then, "Hello? Yes, I'm looking for Auror Montello, is he on – ah thank you very much... Auror Montello? I have a young man waiting at the front desk for you." He then turned to Harry, "May I have your name, sir?" he asked.

"Harry Potter," the Gryffindor stated in a decidedly fed up deadpan, about to even lift his fringe before he remembered that he no longer had that damnable scar.

"Harry Potter at the front desk for you, he says it's urgent," the receptionist finished up the call, voice more than a little sceptical as his eyes flicked up towards Harry's hairline, as if he was going to lift his hair just to show it off. Harry gave him a scathing look and turned away from the Receptionist.

He moved over in order to wait by the door to the offices up stairs, shifting impatiently, the Penseive Catalogue like an icy brand under his arm. He could feel himself sweating in discomfort with the knowledge of just what, EXACTLY, he had under his arm. His grip tightened on his wand.

"Harry?" he heard a familiar voice call, Auror Montello peering through the glass of the door looking concerned as he pressed the security button to unlock it. "What's wrong? No, no, don't say anything here. Come in, we'll head to the offices," he said quickly, hustling Harry into the main building, only giving the bundle under his arm a cursory suspicious glance.

"Who's in charge of my case?" the teenager asked as they moved through the corridors towards the lifts.

"Head of the Department, Maximo Valiante. Why? What's happened?"

"Not here. Is he busy right now? This is _definitely_ something he should know about," the Gryffindor stated firmly.

Auror Montello shifted uncomfortably, "He's in the middle of a phone conference right now. Can it wait? At all?"

"Have you sent people to deal with my relatives yet?" Harry asked, completely unaware they had already been arrested, charged, and placed into a magical prison and his cousin's custody transferred over to his godparents.

"Harry you know I can't answer that," he apologised, looking pained.

"If it is at any point today, then no, it really can't." He tapped the Catalogue that he had wrapped up in his jacket. "Sirius and I have more information regarding the case. This crosses a lot more lines than anything we covered previously."

The Italian looked down at the object, frowned, and then stiffened when Harry shifted a sleeve and allowed a brief glimpse of the Penseive Catalogue to be visible. They were Ministry Auror issue only. Specific for long-term memory storage, they were _only_ to be used for legal reasons and Auror records.

"I'll see what I can do," he said, showing Harry into a small cubicle, "Take a seat. I'll be back as soon as possible," he promised before stepping back out and sliding a door that Harry hadn't seen shut behind him. Immediately the sounds of the office around him faded away to nothing, the whole thing must have been charmed with Silencing spells, amongst other things. The M.E.N. seemed to have their heads really screwed on when it came to law enforcement, at least compared to England.

He was there for perhaps ten minutes, fidgeting in his seat, trying not to pay too much attention to the papers on Auror Montello's desk – he was pretty sure he wasn't allowed to read them.

Then the door slid open and Montello gestured him out, "C'mon, Chief Valiante's waiting for you. He's not too happy though," he warned as he slid the door shut again and showed Harry through the various mazes of cubicles, some open, others not, to a set of offices on the far side. Through the blinds and glass, Harry could see a woman in one of them going through several files with a phone pressed between her ear and shoulder, the curling cord swinging with every movement she made as she sifted through the papers. In the other, a dark skinned man with a scowl was watching them. That must have been Chief Valiante.

"This had better be good, Montello," the man growled as they stepped in. Harry swallowed uncertainly.

"It's pretty far from good, sir," he stated flatly, before unwrapping the Catalogue and setting it on the man's desk. "The whole thing is charmed to subtly deflect attention. Our House-elf picked it up when Sirius ordered it to grab everything with even a smidgeon of my magical signature before we left England. I've had it ever since but every time I go to open it up, the charms kick in and I ignore it. Today, Sirius and I managed to get through them long enough to crack it open. It belongs to Albus Dumbledore. It has... more memories than I counted. I stopped after three hundred," he whispered, not looking up to see the look of horror on Montello's face and the stony grimace on Valiante. "It has a lot more of the Dursleys' abuse in there. Several instances of students using Unforgivables on school grounds. Instances of teachers using them. Proof of memory erasure and modification on Ministry Officials and foreign nationals. D-Dumbledore's been covering up a lot of stuff, hiding it, adjusting it – he... he _knowingly_ sent Sirius to Azkaban.

"I didn't know what else to do with it, sir. The M.E.N have shown that they at least follow their own laws so... I figured it would be best here, so your men and women at least know what to be careful of when they go into England..." he trailed off.

"I see. May I verify this?" Chief Valiante asked.

Harry nodded and allowed the man to pluck one of his hairs and use the same spell that Sirius had earlier. The box lit up with Harry's golden magical signature. When the Chief popped it open, he flicked through the stands removing every single one of Harry's memories until there wasn't a single glow within the Catalogue. The massive pile on his desk made both of the Italians look sick.

"Montello, fetch thirteen bulk Catalogues, and twenty minor. It looks like we're going to have go to through all of the memories individually after this. Thank you for bringing this to our attention, Mister Potter. You have reviewed the memories, yes?" Valiante asked.

Harry nodded, "Both mine and Sirius's. His signature is a navy blue."

Valiante nodded, "I'll make sure the memories are returned to you properly once copies have been made. I recommend having a Healer reapply them. Now, you've given us a lot of work so I hope you will forgive me when I say it's time for you to head home. I'll have Auror Torres will escort you back downstairs," Valiante informed him, punching in a few numbers on his phone before picking up the receiver. "Torres? My office."

A moment later, a young woman with blonde hair poked her head in, looking worried, "Yes sir?"

"Please escort this young man to reception and safely into a taxi, his fare will be covered by the Department," Valiante informed her succinctly.

She nodded, "Yes sir. Right this way," she said to Harry, opening the door further for him to follow. He cast a look back to the two men in the room as they began to sift through the phials, Valiante casting a spell that had the Catalogue lighting up all the colours of the rainbow and everything inbetween.

He followed the woman out, mildly assured, for perhaps the first time in his life, that the Aurors were handling it.

 _ **000**_

 **Chapter finished.**

 **Okay, I'm sure a lot of people will be questioning why I'm kicking this off in this** _ **particular**_ **manner, and the tl;dr version of it is: I need Dumbledore out of the way for the immediate future, I need Harry to not feel guilty about ditching England, Ron, Hermione, and Hogwarts, and I want to set things up for future plotlines regarding the British Magic Users once I've handled the Arcobaleno.**

 **There is a method to my madness, stick with me, and you may just follow the rabbit hole down to where its going.**


	8. Chapter 8

**Drifting Cloud**

 _ **000**_

 _After telling the magical world to go fuck themselves, Harry leaves, and declares his refusal to fight Voldemort for them. They're on their own as he rediscovers the forgotten Black Legacy and steps into a brand new world._

 **KHR/HP, mild Old Kingdom, Kingdom Hearts, , and Ocean's 11 crossovers.**

 **Slash**

 _ **000**_

 **CHAPTER EIGHT**

The Aurors may have been handling things well, but Sirius most certainly was not.

He had thrown himself so deeply into denial that he was pretending as if the prior day had never even happened, that the Penseive Catalogue didn't exist, and when Harry brought it up, merely looked at him in abject confusion before changing the subject. It wouldn't have worried him so much if he hadn't seen the man lash out and set fire to one of the portraits when Mouzey thought to push him on the subject, sending him into an incoherent rage as he refused to believe anything, screaming about how he was a liar.

He immediately had the portrait doused, removed, and replaced, the scorch marks painted over, and the decorative mouldings on the ceiling replastered, but the fact that it happened _anyway_ was worrying. Just as much as the fact he couldn't remember _what_ Mouzey said that put him in such a rage.

Not only that, but Sirius was now physically throwing himself into dealing with the house, the grounds, and their circumstances with the fervour of a man possessed. He spent the day scrubbing and dusting as though they were in Grimmauld Place, not Sky Cottage, and did so without magic, humming Christmas carols as he did so (Harry had no idea that 'God Rest ye Merry Hippogriffs' was even a song, and decided that whoever wrote it needed to be hexed after the sixth time Sirius had sung it within hearing range).

Harry had to bring up their dwindling food supply before he finally agreed to leave the house, and the scrubbing, behind for a day or so. They went to the Italian Magic Quarter where he organised to have both the Black and the Potter fortunes discreetly moved to Italian Vaults – during which Harry learned that he was in line for another Vault, but the Succession was currently in contention as he wasn't the _only_ one in line for it. And for some strange reason he wasn't allowed to know _which_ Vault either, just that it existed, and he had a claim to it.

"It's probably someone who left their Vault to 'the guy who got You Know Who', and now it's under contest because he's not dead anymore, or they have an heir somewhere who made a fuss at losing their inheritance," Sirius theorised as they walked away from the white marble bank, wallets clinking.

Harry grimaced, "If they want it, they can have it. I have my own Vault with more gold than I know what to do with," he muttered, glancing over his shoulder as a Taxi banged into existence at the rank. "So, wands and then food?" he suggested hopefully, if they got the wands first, he wouldn't have to hurt his hands carrying around heavy shopping bags.

"Wands it is," Sirius agreed, probably thinking the same thing, or at least wanting to get rid of his younger brother's wand and use his own. Thinking about it, Sirius hadn't had his own wand in... fourteen years now. Damn, Harry was surprised he wasn't _running_ to the cheery out of place wooden store with its flowery hanging baskets.

With the language sweets they had long ago eaten, Harry could now read the sign that hug above the door as they made their way inside, it was a large wooden sign with the words ' _Fine Foci_ ' carved into it and filled in with black and gold to make it stand out. Inside, it... looked like those pictures of cheery Swedish cafés Harry sometimes saw. Bright, airy, there was a faint smell of carved wood and tea. They were stood in a small foyer type of area with a pair of round little tables and chairs around them, small potted plants sat on each table next to a leather-bound menu of all things. A wooden counter and a muggle style till stood in front of a white wire rack filled with more potted plants and flowers against the far wall, and beside it was row, upon row, of library style shelving units. All of them filled with long, thin, wand boxes in varying colours. The familiar black, silver, and red from Ollivanders, but also greens, blues, pinks, oranges, golds, purples, and even something that seemed to change colour the more Harry looked at it. If he recalled, the colour of the boxes corresponded with the wand cores, meaning that red was phoenix feather, silver was unicorn, and black was dragon. But what on earth did those _other_ colours mean?

"Menus?" Sirius wondered, brushing his hair out of his face as he approached one of the tables, picking up the leather bound object with confusion.

"Maybe it doubles as a café?" Harry suggested curiously as he came up on the Dog Animagus' other side, peering over his arm. Sirius had, as usual, taken a great deal of time to groom and dress himself up before leaving the house – this time not even needing Mouzey's cutting remarks to prompt him. Personally, Harry was concerned that he was doing it just to distract himself from what they'd learned in that penseive and he hoped that the Aurors would release their memories soon. The quicker they got Sirius to a Mind Healer, the happier Harry would be.

"Hehhe, of course not," a wizened voice behind them announced, wheezing and crackling a little at the edges, it matched the withered old man it came from. What the hell was it with Wand Makers and making their customers nearly brick themselves with surprise by sneaking up on them? He was _ancient_ , his mouth puckered and his cheeks sunken in, his eyes blindfolded under a strip of black cloth, his head bald save for a single shock of rusty red hair on a high-set widow's peak. Bent with age, he was wrapped in a ragged black cloak, animal bones decorated with feathers on a necklace around his throat, he leaned heavily on a gnarled branch as he sloped forward, the sound of bottles and bones clinking and clacking from within his shroud.

Creepy.

"Th-then what are they for?" Sirius asked, tightening his grip on the menu, his gaze sharpening up as if he were contemplating how hard he had to throw it at the old man in order to distract him long enough to grab Harry and get out of the building. Though Harry wasn't in a much better state. The both of them were far too high-strung, the slightest surprise was enough to send both of them into 'Fight or Flight' mode – and with their reflexes and experiences thus far, that was dangerous. For other people.

The old man just wheezed another laugh, "My foci are picky. It takes time for them to find their perfect match, sometimes customers must return to getter get to know my foci before they're accepted. That is for them. It is easier for parents to wait when they have something to drink in hand," he explained easily as he reached out and plucked the menu from Sirius's fingers, "But you won't be needing it, will you? You are carrying your younger brother's wand and it resents you something fierce. The bitter taste of its heart is like a flavour at the back of my mouth. It is most unpleasant," he complained with a grimace, before gesturing at the two of them to follow him.

Sirius gaped, "My – Reggie's – how did you _know_?" he spluttered as he chased after the old Wand Maker into the shelves, Harry following on his heels.

"I told you, boy. The hurt feelings and resentment of that wand are like a bad taste in my mouth. It bends to you only minutely because of your shared blood, and the yearning your brother had for you, because that is what your – 'Reggie' was it? - because that is what your Reggie would have wanted. To help you however possible. Wands choose their wielders, they carve their hearts to that wielder," the old wand maker lectured as they came to a small space at the back of the store, a small circular space with two soft chairs, and a table, all around them were more bookcases – they seemed to be coded _somehow_ but Harry couldn't figure out how as he looked around. It wasn't the wand cores, he could see various different coloured boxes everywhere. And there were no labels on the shelves to indicate length or wood or even density.

"What originally was your wand, lad?" the old man asked as he set Sirius's wand on the table – the wizard flailing as he realised it had been lifted from his pocket without his notice. Harry blinked in surprise and gripped the length of holly hidden in his pocket tightly and shifted out of arms reach from the old man, watching him warily with sharp eyes. This guy wasn't normal – even by wizarding standards. There was a sharpness to him that Harry didn't quite understand. A coppery tang.

"Ah, erm, Cypress, Dragon Heartstring, ten and a quarter inches, unyielding. One of Ollivander's wands," Sirius answered immediately, the particulars of his first wand as ingraved in his mind as they were in every witch and wizards'.

The wand maker hummed, "Cypress, very noble. The self-sacrificing and bold do well with Cypress wands. Those unafraid to confront darkness around, or even within themselves. Though, I dare say you have done a little too much of that lately," he commented, somehow giving the impression of throwing the Dog Animagus an up-down look before returning to his rummaging amidst the boxes, vanishing amidst the shelves as he spoke. "A fairly big personality you have for such a long wand, but stubborn, completely set in your ways. Unyielding, yes, I can see that plain as day. Once your mind has been made, very little will change it, and when it does, it may just shatter your entire world view.

"Try this. Aspen, Dragon heartstring, eleven inches, rigid," he suddenly suggested, appearing from between the shelves and thrusting a box under Sirius's nose, his puckered mouth stretching into an amused grin when the wizard jerked backwards in surprise.

He hadn't even taken it out of the box before the old man was shaking his head and pulling the box away, "No, no. She will not have you. Noble you may be, determined beyond measure, but your mind is in no position to bear the weight of Aspen," he explained as he gently boxed the wand up again and vanished through the shelves. "No, my apologies, I had not taken your mental state into my calculations. Yes, you have confronted too much darkness, too many shadows have attacked your mind. It is a comment to your strength, your determination, and yes, even that unyielding stubbornness of yours, that you are even functional right now. But you require some aid I believe. Yes, even the Aspen would agree, had your mind been hale and healthy, she would have been more than pleased with your match. But alas, you are injured, and she would stress you further with her wiles."

Sirius and Harry exchanged wary glances, this guy was completely barking mad. He seemed harmless enough but... wand-makers don't survive so long without some skill to protect themselves.

"But you have impressed the Silver Lady, boy. Such things are rare. Can you hear her?" he asked pointedly, "she whispers to her sisters... she is looking for one who would help you regain yourself." The old man chuckled, "Goodness, it has been many years since a wizard had managed to seduce one of the Silver Ladies to such a degree. Yes, of course my dear. Oh you will, will you? That is most gracious, isn't it?" the wand maker commented somewhere out of sight, seemingly talking to himself.

Seemingly, at least to Sirius.

Harry could feel all the hairs on the back of his neck standing straight, as if there were a breeze through the room, of the faintest, lightest, brush of fingers against the nape of his neck. It felt as though he were in a library, a very strict one, filled with the low murmur of voices too far away, too hidden, for him to make out. But if he would just turn a corner, surely he would hear them. He had felt this when he stepped into Ollivander's store in his first year, as though he had just stepped into a library. But this? This was _much_ stronger.

"Here, the Willow Maidens have agreed to the Silver Lady's request," the wand maker announced, appearing through the shelves with a set of three boxes in arm. He laid them out on the table next to Sirius's borrowed wand and opened the first one, a black box, "Willow and Dragon heartstring, ten inches, rigid," he announced, holding the box out towards Sirius.

He held a hand over the wand, wiggling his fingers briefly as he eyed the wand maker warily. And then dropped a hand down onto the wood, carefully picking it out of the velvet lined box.

He gave it a small experimental flick, but the wand remained inert in his fingers.

"Not the Dragon heartstring, I see. Your petty feelings of greed and uncompromising rage have been tempered. Or rather, leashed," he observed, and it _might_ have been Harry's imagination, but he got the feeling the old man had glanced at him as he said this. As if HARRY were the reason Sirius had leashed his temper. The old man set the wand back into its box and to one side and selected another box, cardinal red. "Perhaps this, Willow and Phoenix feather, eleven inches, springy," he declared, holding the box out.

This time, when Sirius held it, he sighed, the tight bunching of his muscles relaxing. The line of his shoulders dropping at least two inches as with an almost negligent swish, the air filled with navy blue and tarnished silver motes of light, almost like incense with how they dreamily filtered through the air.

The wand maker smiled, "Yes, very good. The Willow maiden and the healing phoenix, a good match for bringing you back into your own. Perhaps, when your mind has recovered, you would consent to return; I know the Silver Lady would be interested in holding your hand once more."

"Thank you," Sirius breathed, staring in rapture at his new wand, fingers gently caressing the wood with all the care a lover would use to worship their beloved's skin. It was a little too intimate to watch, Harry felt as he awkwardly turned away – and promptly jumped almost out of his _skin_ when he came nose to nose with the wizened old Wand Maker.

He skipped backwards and yanked his holly wand up in a flash, almost in complete instinct, and had it promptly plucked out of his fingers.

"HEY!" he yelped, darting forward and trying to snatch it back. That was _his_ wand!

"Beautiful," the wand maker crooned, his chipped and broken talon-like fingernails trailing down the length of Harry's wand with almost reverent interest. "Rarely have I ever seen a wand cleave so to her wielder. Holly, and phoenix feather, eleven inches, supple..." he observed, allowing Harry to snatch it away from him. "You must have done something truly extraordinary to obtain the loyalty of this wand, and something _legendary_ to gain her love," the old man mused, leaning into Harry's face, seemingly staring deep into his eyes – despite his own being covered, and hidden.

Harry swallowed and turned his gaze to the side, unwilling to meet eyes he couldn't see. He got a feeling that he shouldn't look this man in the eyes, because if he did, his soul would be laid bare. Every secret, every thought, every memory. He shouldn't look.

"Would it be so terrible if you did?" the wand maker asked, tilting his head and grinning with an almost toothless mouth. "If I did know?" he asked.

"Some things should remain a secret," Harry retorted uncomfortably, still leaning away from him, wondering why the hell Sirius wasn't intervening. A quick glance proved why, he was still enraptured by his new wand and slightly misty eyed. Clearly his mind was somewhere _far_ away from here at present. "Can you remove the Trace from it?" he blurted. That was, after all, one of the reasons they were there.

The wand maker scoffed, "No."

Harry deflated as he moved away, returning the holly wand. Well, fuck. That meant he wasn't going to be able to continue his magical education until he was seventeen when it came off. Because the Trace was a British charm, it would continue to register in the British Ministry of Magic, not the Italian one – thus giving away his full location every time he cast a spell. There was apparently no way of altering this either, at least according to the paperwork he and Sirius were given after the trial, no way of swapping the British Trace for an Italian one, or swapping over recording locations. The Trace would have to be completely removed and then reapplied.

"But, I can give you a new Wand. No, I would insist upon it. Any youth able to win over the heart of such a wand would be a _fine_ partner for any of my own wands, I would be happy to outfit you with another, knowing that she would be going into good hands," the wand maker announced firmly, turning in place with a rattle of bone and clink of glass.

Harry gripped his holly wand tightly, he didn't want to give it up. This was _his_ wand. The things they'd been through, the trials, the spells, the adventures. She was his _partner_. She had been watching his back ever since he'd entered into the Wizarding World, protecting him, teaching him. He couldn't just... abandon her now that she couldn't be used!

"You would not be replacing her, lad," the wand-maker assured him gently, "Merely gaining another member of the family."

At his words, the holly wand in his hand warmed, almost in approval or agreement.

Harry... sighed, and slumped in place, "Are you sure you can't remove the Trace?" he asked quietly, looking up pleadingly at the old man.

He shook his head slowly, "It is woven through the wood and into the core of the wand. To remove it before it is ready would be to strip the core and destroy the wand utterly. These spells dissolve naturally with the final magical maturation. Once you become seventeen, she will be within your hand once again," he assured the young wizard who glanced down at the length of wood in his hand once more. She pulsed with warmth and he sighed, nodding slowly.

"Alright... Let's see if we can't find another wand," he said quietly, almost reluctantly.

A silver box was thrust under his nose before he'd even finished his sentence, "Aspen, unicorn tail hair, twelve inches, rather rigid," the wand-maker introduced eagerly.

Harry grimaced, giving his holly wand one last look before carefully tucking it back into his pocket and reaching out for the new wand. It was pulled out of his reach almost immediately.

"No, no, all wrong, no," the old man scolded, shaking his head and bustling off into the shelves with the box being negligently shoved onto a shelf without care. Harry glanced at it in disbelief – were _none_ of these wands in an order? How on earth did the wand-maker know which wand was which without labels or a filing system for them? Instinct? Some weird kind of magical sensitivity?

"Here, beech, phoenix feather, nine inches, rather bendy. Beech is a good wood for those who are wise beyond their years with a wealth of experiences, rather poor in the hands of the intolerant or the narrow minded, but capable of artistry unlike any other," the wand-maker waxed poetic as he presented a red box to him. Well, Harry had experience in bucketfuls, and he didn't _think_ he was narrow minded, or intolerant. But artistry didn't sound like something he was particularly gifted in.

"No? Well, perhaps Dragon Heartstring instead," the wand-maker suggested when the wand remained inert in Harry's fingers. Boxing it back into its red cardboard, he presented a black box.

And didn't even let Harry take it out before he was quickly yanking it away, "No, no, no, goodness no! Absolutely horribly matched! Dragon heartstring is _not_ for you," he exclaimed with a rapid shake of his head as he quickly shoved the black box onto a shelf – along with the other two he had on his person. "Here, let's try one of the Silver Ladies. Aspen, phoenix feather, nine inches, rather rigid. No? Ah, you _are_ stubborn, but when corrected you do not cling to ideals to the point of idiocy. No, your mental state is quite flexible, yes?

"Try this one, Cypress, phoenix feather, nine inches, whippy," he offered, presenting another red box. All the remaining boxes were red actually, Harry noted, he must have been able to narrow down which wand core best suited him. And hadn't the lengths so far been nine-inches? Was that the best suited one for him? But his holly wand was eleven inches... "Cypress is often associated with nobility, those armed with such wands are often heroes, those of great bravery and boldness, unafraid to confront the darkness within themselves, and others. Your father's original wand-wood. Perhaps it will suit you as well?" There was a pause, and the man's smile fell a little at the lack-lustre response. "Perhaps not. She likes your hand well enough, but the match is... not as good as I would have hoped. Perhaps chestnut...?" he suggested, unearthing a single silver box from amidst the pile of red, "A varied and complex wood, one that concerns itself with matters of justice when partnered with a hair from a unicorn. I believe the last three successive heads of the British Wizengamot haver possessed chestnut and unicorn hair wands. Such wands vary from wielder to wielder as they take a great deal of interest in their wielders, and often change to try and better match them.

"Hm, no, a poor match. Your concerns do not lie with such ambivalent things like the ever changing concept of justice. Here, chestnut, phoenix feather, ten and a half inches – goodness no, no, clearly chestnut is not a wood for you."

Harry was beginning to wonder if this was going to be Ollivander's all over again. Already the small pile of wands he had tried was threatening to overtake the table that Sirius had placed his brother's wand upon – now it was set within the box his willow wand had come in and put to one side. Sirius was sat on a chair, watching him in amusement, his new wand still clasped in both hands as though it were made of spun sugar.

Another Aspen wand was brought out, this one had one of the strongest reactions thus far but apparently that wasn't good enough for the old wand-maker because it was quickly taken off him with a shake of his head. A spruce wand, apple wood, another holly (Harry hadn't even touched it before it was whisked away again), sycamore, and then -

"I think... _this_ one... is the one... Try. Cedar and phoenix feather, twelve and a half inches, supple, much like your other partner," the wand-maker announced, presenting him with another red box. "Cedar... it is said that those who carry cedar wands are exceptionally strong of character, and loyal to the last. Never will you find a traitor with such a wand, and never will you find a fool with one either. Such wands are discerning characters, they tend to find their perfect home with those possessing higher than average perception of the world around them. Though woe betide any who dare cross such a wielder by harming those they find precious. Such people carry the potential to be _frightful_ enemies if pushed to that point, much to the shock of those who have stupidly challenged them," the old man explained as Harry took the wand from its box – and immediately felt the tight muscle between his shoulder blades unravel, unwind, and smooth out. As if all the tense aches of his body just _melted_ away.

The purple, dark inky blue, black, and silver motes looked like incense painted like the night sky as Harry drew his wand through the air, the colours drifting like clouds and slowly dissipating into the air like smoke.

This was his wand. His new partner. She would watch his back until his holly wand could be used again, and then they would be able to work together in concert. In harmony.

Together, the two wands cost fourteen galleons, less than Ollivander's if only because the strange old wand-maker thought they would take better care of his wands than many other witches and wizards that passed through his doors. That Sirius would need the Willow Maiden most, and that Harry would climb to great heights with the Cedar Warrior in hand.

"What's your name, if you don't mind me asking?" Harry asked as they were leaving, they had gotten so caught up in their search for a new wand that he had completely forgotten about even asking who their host was.

The man smiled toothlessly at them.

"Some call me Talbot. Others... well, you may know me a little better, Mister Potter, as Nicholas Flamel."

 _ **000**_

 **BOOM.**

 **Bet you didn't see that coming, did you? XDDDD**

 **Harry and Sirius have their wands now, and while I** **thought** **about continuing the chapter even further, I liked where I left this one off and I was also getting tired and wanting to go to bed. So yeah, a good place to leave off. Hope you've enjoyed it.**

 _Wandlore and wood symbolisms are taken from Pottermore, so they should be true to canon._


	9. Chapter 9

**Drifting Cloud**

 _ **000**_

 _After telling the magical world to go fuck themselves, Harry leaves, and declares his refusal to fight Voldemort for them. They're on their own as he rediscovers the forgotten Black Legacy and steps into a brand new world._

 **KHR/HP, mild Old Kingdom, Kingdom Hearts, , and Ocean's 11 crossovers.**

 **Slash**

 _ **000**_

 **CHAPTER NINE**

Sirius gagged, and Harry was pretty sure he had gone completely stark _white_.

The old wand-maker only grinned, "Good afternoon gentlemen," he crooned as, with a wave of his hand, the door opened, and a force grabbed the two of them by the backs of their shirts and hauled them out into the street. A second later, the door closed in front of them, lock clicking into place, and the _'open'_ sign flipped over to say ' _closed_ '.

The two wizards gaped at one another in disbelief.

"Nicholas... Flamel?" Sirius wheezed, pointing at the door.

"I – I need to apologise for the stone," Harry admitted weakly, he never _did_ get a chance to do that; wasn't he supposed to be _dead_ anyway?!

"I think it's going to have to wait until tomorrow..." Sirius spluttered out weakly nodding to the sign.

Harry eyed it thoughtfully, wondering how much effort it would take to force the lock before sighing, he couldn't do that. He wanted to _apologise_ , not piss him off. "Right. C'mon, let's go," he muttered, glancing back towards the wand shop as the two of them moved away to the North East food district.

"You know," Sirius said as they meandered through the alleys, pausing now and again to examine store windows, Harry feeling up fruits and vegetables now and again, "We kind of stick out," he observed. Harry threw him a 'no shit' look. Harry less so than his godfather, but that was simply because he had opted to wear muggle jeans and a T-shirt while the dog animagus was flouncing around in one of Lockhart's fruitier robes of many colours. Almost all of Lockhart's robes had been stolen by the dog animagus actually, Harry had kept some of the nicer ones with the intention of resizing them to fit, but Sirius had other ideas.

" _You_ stick out, you mean," Harry corrected snarkily, making the woman at the counter giggle a little as she handed over a bag of sliced meat. Gathering the meat up, Harry stowed it in the bottomless chill bag he had purchased at the front of the food district.

"Psssh, like you don't in those rags, Oliver Twist," he scoffed in reply. Harry pulled a face, apparently Purebloods were familiar with Dickens, who knew. "When we finish here, let's stop by the fashion district. I need some local clothes and _you_ need a new wardrobe."

"No I don't," Harry quickly refused. While he had never seen Sirius shopping, Harry got the impression by the amount of time he spent on his personal grooming before coming out, he probably power-shopped even _worse_ than Aunt Petunia did when Uncle Vernon got his Christmas Bonus package.

Sirius gave him a look.

"Harry, you were wearing that shirt the first time I saw you at Privet Drive. Only now it actually _fits_ you. You're getting new clothes, deal with it," he declared coolly giving his shirt a look of great dislike. Harry glanced down at the green flannel in surprise, it _was_ one of Dudley's hand-me-downs but... had it really been what he'd worn the first time he met Sirius back in his third year? He was surprised it had held up so well over the years, it had been given to him when he was ten, one of the last hand-me-downs he'd ever received from the Dursleys because he sure as shit never got any after he started attending Hogwarts. Actually... Apart from his uniforms, Harry had never gone clothes shopping for himself. It had either been hand-me-downs, or Mrs Weasley kindly picking everything up for him while he was otherwise engaged or unable to go to the alley. And he'd never felt comfortable buying things he didn't _need_ around Ron, it would have felt unfair to his friend.

He sighed and gave up, "Alright, alright. Just... not too much. I don't really need it," he reasoned. He had a feeling Sirius would go overboard regardless – the first gift Harry ever got from him was a Firebolt worth _hundreds_ of galleons, his other gifts were much more toned down by simple virtue of both being on the run and Harry's own dislike of expensive things. Something the dog animagus had actually managed to pick up on during their few short meetings before now. Plus, it wasn't like Ron was his friend anymore, so he _shouldn't_ feel guilty about buying things when the other boy couldn't, not when they were quite literally countries apart.

Harry stopped in the middle of the street, it only just hitting him now: this was the longest length of time he had ever spent with Sirius before in his life, excepting those months as an infant when Lily and James were alive.

"Harry?" Sirius called, turning in confusion when his godson suddenly stopped dead in the street, a strange expression crossing his face. "Is everything alright?" he asked warily, hand creeping towards his wand as he glanced around suspiciously.

Harry swallowed tightly and shook his head, "It's fine. Just... just a thought," he admitted before adjusting the bottomless bag and hurrying back to Sirius's side.

"What kind of thought?" the older Gryffindor asked as they dodged past a young family.

Harry pressed his lips together, wondering if he should say. "It's just... this – this is the longest amount of time we've ever spent together since that Halloween..." he explained quietly before snagging the older man's arm, "and I've never thanked you, ever, for all the things you've done. I just took it for granted, so, _thank_ you. Thank you _so_ much, for being there for me," he managed to get out, his throat closing painfully when he thought back on Sirius hiding out in that cave living on rats, just waiting for information all because Harry said his scar hurt, Sirius fleeing Azkaban when he found out that Harry was sharing a dormitory with a murderer and a Death Eater, and now, how he'd bundled him up and fled England entirely, abandoning Moony, the Order, the war he poured his heart and soul into, lost his family to, his life to, just to keep _him_ safe. Just because _he_ couldn't hack it, because he wasn't strong enough, wasn't brave enough.

Harry threw his arms around him, hugging him tightly, feeling Sirius's arms come up and around him.

He promised then and there, that if Sirius ever needed him, no matter what it was, Harry would support him come hell or high-water. Whatever it was. He owed him that much at the very least.

 _ **000**_

Sirius was... not as bad as Harry feared when it came to powershopping.

Oh they still got _far_ too much for his tastes, but it wasn't the torturous outings that Aunt Petunia used to drag him out on, for one, he wasn't even carrying any bags. Another, Sirius didn't spend hours contemplating the cut or colour of this and that, or how to match it to his jewellery, shoes, or bag, or quibble over which designer label had made it, or whether Mrs Number Two, or Number Six, or Number Five across the road had already bought it. Sirius knew what colours and cuts suited him, and he walked into the store with a clear idea of what he wanted and didn't allow the sales assistant to bamboozle him into buying any garment more than he actually wanted.

He got more than he planned, but Harry could see how the sales assistant had given up in trying to push or guide the British Pureblood to some... quite frankly silly fashions in Harry's opinion. What the hell was that angular monstrosity? It looked like the lovechild of a paper aeroplane and one of Professor Trelawney's lampshades. He could kind of _guess_ it was some kind of dress given how it was... folded around the mannequin, and clearly for women but...

He would never understand fashion.

Sirius got himself a number of the tunics the locals wore, but along with them he sprung for a few togas; apparently the Italian answer to Dress Robes, and with a much longer history and greater symbolism. As the head of the Black family, the Patriarch, Sirius's absurdly huge togas were to denote his status within the family, made visible by being made of white wool and bordered in amethyst purple – a colour with connections to royalty. Apparently the Italian Mages, especially the local Pureblood factions, had a massive bug up their butts about such proprieties when it came to their togas as they were both historically and culturally important to them. But the cloaks though, they had a great deal more freedom with them. They weren't like the British cloaks, these were much more akin to a cape, short and light, it was open at the side and fastened on the right shoulder with a buckle or a broach. They came in so many different colours and patterns, some with embroidered and enchanted scenes on them, like tapestries. Others were plain but made of high-quality materials. Harry even identified one as being made of Acromantula silk when he ignored the store assistant and rubbed a corner between his fingers. The look on the snotty man's face when Harry correctly identified the substance was quite humorous – even more so when Harry admitted to having walked into a nest, and then quickly ran his way back out of it, hence how he recognised the substance.

Sirius had gone very white and muttered quietly to him as he stepped off the fitting stool that they were going to have a _very_ long conversation about what he'd been getting up to while at Hogwarts. Harry wasn't particularly looking forward to it.

Thankfully he was saved from having answers shaken out of him at that particular moment, what with being on a fitting stool and getting his measurements. He politely declined getting one of those huge heavy togas that Sirius had, he requested one of the smaller, less grand ones, even though by all rights he was supposed to have a big one as well. It just didn't feel right to flaunt his status like that.

He ended up escaping that particular store with just the one plain white toga, a few tunics, three rather nice cloaks, a few fastenings for them, and his measurements in hand – or rather, _Sirius's_ hand. Which he then promptly handed over to someone in the next shop and Harry found himself getting whisked into a fitting room by a young man with a rather shark-like smile.

"Nothing tight or form fitting," Harry vetoed immediately with a narrow glare.

His smile faltered for a moment and a look of uncertainty crossed his features before he nodded awkwardly and began to examine him from top to tail. He knew Harry's sizes, but he wasn't too sure on his colours just yet, or what cuts would suit him.

He did however keep to Harry's demand for loose clothing. He left the store with several pairs of jeans, sturdy canvas cargos with a multitude of pockets, board shorts, baggy T-shirts, overlarge hoodies, a big brown leather bomber jacket that he had fallen in love with at first sight and was now burrowed down into the fluffy sheep-skin interior. He had absolutely no need for it in Italy where he would _bake_ , but he still loved it. And a black suit with a number of nice shirts and ties to go with it at Sirius's insistence – since he refused to wear the fancier togas (and yeah, he admitted, Harry would look ridiculous in them, but looked fairly snappy in the suit though).

"Such a shame you wouldn't let him outfit you properly," Sirius complained idly as they left the shop, their purchases tucked into the bottomless bags.

Harry scoffed, "And give him more opportunity to put his hands where they weren't wanted?" he demanded shortly, he did not _like_ people touching him. Did not like strangers laying hands on him, leaning into his space, breathing hard, looking him up and down like a slab of meat. All the hairs on his arms were stood straight with discomfort. He was so glad to be out of there.

"He wasn't that bad," Sirius chuckled, Harry just huffed in distaste, glaring at his feet as they made their way to the Bazaar. Sirius wanted to hire one of the house-elves to do a quick blitz of the house just to make _extra_ certain it was clean and safe, as he wasn't a hundred percent sure, and Kreacher certainly wasn't helpful.

There seemed to be a bit of an event though, crowds of men and women cluttering the street, cheering and milling around excitedly. Harry could hear snatches of conversation here and there, there seemed to be some kind of amateur Duelling Tournament kicking off outside the Colosseum with rights to participate in official events on the table for the winner. Apparently any member of the general public could challenge one of the Gladiators, if they won, they would be allowed to take part in Colosseum tournaments. But only if they won.

He'd never seen a Duelling Tournament.

Harry wriggled through the crowds, leaving Sirius behind in order to slither to the front of the spectators.

What he found when he got there though was...

Ridiculous.

All of the 'Gladiators' were stupidly buff, with bronze muscles, golden armour, smiling and waving to the crowds. Like... gold gilded peacocks presenting in the hopes of attracting more women – and there were a lot of women in the crowd, all screaming various names, jumping up and down, squealing, laughing (Harry had to duck to one side when a pair of underwear went flying past his head and onto the stage – the ear splitting screech behind him nearly blew an eardrum when one of the 'bronze gods' picked it up and made a show of tucking it into his armour).

He folded his arms, and arched an eyebrow, sincerely unimpressed.

One of the Gladiators must have taken note because he was now concentrating most of his 'charisma' in Harry's direction. The Gryffindor scoffed in disgust, rolling his eyes. Where the hell was the Duelling? He shifted and once again lost himself to the heaving wide of women as he went hunting for the actual Tournament, instead of the bird cage/stage.

"Finally," he grunted, practically tumbling out of the crush of bodies in front of the Duelling arena. And it was an arena, not like that long narrow stage that Lockhart tried to teach them on in his Second year. It was a round arena, sunken into the ground, and down below he could see two fighters, stood in place, throwing spells at each other.

"There you are! Phew, did you get a look at that lot?" Sirius commented, managing to elbow himself to Harry's side, glancing over his shoulder to where the Gladiators were still posturing for the screaming women – and one of them seemed to be watching his Prongslet with an unusual degree of interest. Women not his thing? Or did he perhaps think Harry was just a particularly tomboyish young lady? Either way, he tries anything, Sirius was going to have his balls in a jam-jar. He would even sell them to those screaming women, he'd probably get quite a bit of cash.

"Peacocks," the younger Gryffindor scoffed dismissively before nodding down to the Duelling arena, "Have you seen these idiots? What the hell do they think they're doing? Conducting an orchestra?" he demanded, folding his arms in utter disgust. Sirius found himself struck once again by how much like his mother he was. Even the curl of his lip was identical to that of Lily Potter's when she was at her most disapproving. But those eyes, he remembered them even better. His Great Aunt Dorea had those eyes whenever she was displeased, whenever she was focused intently on something, picking it apart. It was her Blade-Face, as Sirius had called it when he was younger, when to have those eyes on you felt like someone was holding a blade to your neck. It was a look only a Black could do.

"One of them is going to poke an eye out," the younger Gryffindor observed in disgust.

"You think you can do better?" a pushy _loud_ voice demanded from knee level. Harry didn't even look down as he glared into the arena. Sirius however, nearly jumped a mile and stared down at the overweight satyr with his hands on his hips, giving the green eyed boy a thorough eyeing up and down, looking doubtful as he did so. He remembered seeing him on their first visit to the Magic Quarter, this was the guy in charge of the Colosseum!

"Yes," Harry declared certainly.

If any of those men had been in a real, legitimate fight for their lives, he would eat the Sorting Hat. __They had all the ability of a first year Slytherin trying to show off to his friends, hell, he'd seen Draco Malfoy perform better in their second year.

"Put your money where your mouth is, kiddo! Take a turn in the ring!" the Satyr practically howled, hopping from hoof to hoof, steaming mad. Harry snorted, quirking a smirk.

"Are you sure, sir? I've only ever had one Duelling lesson," he admitted still without looking up as the Duel down in the arena came to an end, and cheering and applause went up around them.

"Someone needs ta teach yous kids some respect!" the Satyr blustered, but now there was a speculative gleam in his eyes as he stared Harry up and down.

"How much is entry?" Sirius asked, fighting back his own smirk. If Moony said the kid was a genius, Sirius was going to put his faith in him. Harry had saved his life afterall, not even Dumbledore could claim a Patronus that drove away that many Dementors. It would _definitely_ be entertaining to watch his cute little godson show those oiled up peacocks what a real Duel was. Hell, he fought back a fully blown manic grin as he handed over the required gold to the suspicious Satyr and Harry vaulted over the barriers and down into the arena, he didn't think Harry even knew how to _Duel_. This was going to be a _fight_ , a _battle_ , not something as boring as a Duel. And it was going to be amazing.

If he could handle You-Know-Who on his lonesome, this lot was going to be easier than first year Herbology.

Harry scuffed the dirt under his foot, testing the depth and grip of it. It was similar to the sandpits on the Quidditch pitch, fairly loose, it would make dodging difficult, running as well, but it would provide a nice cushion for if he had to throw himself prone, plus it had other uses beyond a cushion. Some of the grains were fine enough that throwing it in his opponent's eyes would be a real pain in the ass.

"So, what are the rules?" he asked as he straightened up and rolled his shoulders.

"No Dark magic, no maiming curses, no targeting the audience, and no summoning outside help," his opponent explained, grinning down at him. "Loser has to pay for dinner," he added with a wink.

Harry gave him a narrow stare, watching in satisfaction as the grin faltered a little, "Alright," he agreed, and made a mental note to take Sirius somewhere expensive on this guy's tab.

The Satyr jumped onto the railings and lifted both arms, "READY...?!

"BEGIN!" he bellowed, bringing both arms down.

Harry's opponent hit the dirt a breath later.

A single disarming charm, snapped out too fast for his opponent to even bring his wand up. Harry caught it as it sailed through the air, and watched as the gladiator huffed, groaning, clutching at his chest where the charm hit him like a punch and sent him flying twelve feet backwards and into the dirt.

"I win," the Gryffindor observed mildly before throwing the wand back to its owner. "Looks like you're buying my father and I dinner," he added with a smirk.

The gladiator spluttered, "I – but – you – "

"Are a minor," he pointed out, and watched in great amusement as the gladiator blinked, and then paled, looking queasy. Harry rolled his head to the Satyr, he didn't say anything, just looked at him expectantly.

Sirius cackled maniacally from his place in the stands, he tried to smother it in his hands but, oh sweet Circe, the look on that guy's face, the look on the _satyr's_ face! Priceless! Absolutely priceless! He wished he had a camera. Oh it was glorious. One of the best pranks he'd seen in a while, watching his adorable little godson send a man twice his height and three times his weight flying before he'd even brought his wand up. Moony hadn't been kidding when he said the Seeker was a quick little bugger in a fight.

"So, you're that little lightning bolt's father?" a voice behind him asked, sounding resigned but also amused. Sirius turned and spotted the gladiator behind him, still rubbing his bare chest where the disarming charm hit, there would be a lovely bruise there in a few.

He snickered, "Yup. Speedy little bastard, isn't he?" he asked mirthfully as the Gladiator came up to his side.

"Packs a punch too," he added with reluctant admiration. "Indominus Rex, I made a deal with the young man to take you both to dinner," he explained, much to Sirius's confusion, he hadn't heard anything like that (he had been a bit too far away to hear when Indominus threw down his stipulation that the loser bought dinner, he had been hoping to score a hot date, but not only was that hot date jailbait, but so uninterested he may as well have been trying to chat up the Ice King himself). At the other man's look of confusion, he explained properly, grimacing in embarrassment when the silver eyed man roared with laughter and slapped the railings to the arena. Well, at least he had a better sense of humour than most parents Indominus had the misfortune of meeting.

"NEXT!" Harry's voice rang out again, taking the two by surprise because – they hadn't even known a second match had begun.

When he looked down and saw Reuben bound, gagged, and hanging upside down, Indominus could only curse himself for not paying attention. Reuben was an uppity mouthy asshole, watching him get that asshole handed to him by someone half his height would have been _sweet_.

The hot DILF next to him chuckled, "Ahh, he has his mother's technique. That was a woman you didn't want to get on the wrong side of a wand from," he mused nostalgically. God, Indominus shuddered, the idea of a woman that ruthless in combat was both terrifying and mildly arousing, and this guy managed to land a woman like that?

"Do you fight that well?" he asked curiously.

The dark haired man shrugged a shoulder, "Used to. I was one of the best Aurors the British had. But... I've been unwell for the last decade and a half. Now a days, no. Experience can make up for a lot, but right now I'm in no fit state for such things," he admitted sadly, giving the arena a longing look. "Looks like fun though," he laughed.

Harry took down three people before he even had to take a single step, and that was simply to dodge a blasting curse that sent dust and sand fluming out into the air, blanketing the arena. That was a _very_ stupid move because it rendered them both blind – but Harry was prepared for that eventuality and had cast a Bubblehead Charm, preventing the dust from getting in and hurting him. His opponent? Was swearing and wiping at his eyes, coughing on the dust, making a racket, and not watching his back.

"NEXT!" Harry called through the dust, one foot braced on his bound and gagged opponent for everyone to see when one of the Colosseum officials cleared the air with a charm.

The following Duel actually lasted longer than all the previous ones put together – if only because Harry's opponent favoured the use of shield charms, letting his opponent wear themselves out. A sound strategy in most cases. If his opponent wasn't a vindictive, imaginative, little bastard.

Harry transfigured the ground beneath his feet into swamp water, dunking him in up to his neck before he dropped the shield charms in a panic to try and fish himself out. Harry snagged him with a levitation charm, yanking him out of the water and throwing him high into the air. He summoned the man's wand while he was screaming and flailing in midair, and then cushioned him with that _Arresto Momentum_ he learned during Quidditch Practice. He landed lightly, still blubbering fearfully. Apparently he was deathly terrified of heights. Harry grimaced, actually helping him out of the arena and apologising for scaring him at the same time. That was ungentlemanly, and unsporting.

Finally, the guy that had been eyeing him up since his first arrival stepped into the arena, smirking confidently. "You, my passeroto, are going down. And when you lose, it will be on me," he declared smugly, immediately putting Harry's back up something fierce with that declaration. He was sorely reminded of a disgusting mixture between Malfoy, Lockhart, and oddly enough Seamus at his most disgustingly sexist (he called it changing room talk, both Harry _and_ Neville called it gross and rude).

"You'll have to actually beat me before that happens," he pointed out coldly, lowering himself into a ready stance for the first time since he started this tournament. Something that had a low murmur of realisation ripple through the audience, and made Mister Arrogant's smirk drop a tiny bit as he realised that perhaps trying to provoke him was _not_ a good idea. Because now Harry was taking him seriously.

The red faced Satyr was practically sweating with a mixture of excitement and worry, "READY...?! BEGIN!" he roared, throwing his arms down and gripping the stone railing with both hands as he nearly threw himself off, watching intently, so intently, he leaned too far out and nearly fell in.

Harry threw himself to the side, spells flying from the tip of his wand.

Arrogant arsewipe shielding against them though, or knocking them aside with spells of his own. He had good aim to do that, and a fair bit of power behind that shield charm. Who knew, perhaps Harry would actually break a sweat in this fight?

His grin was all teeth as he gave up attempting to get behind him and instead ran straight for him. Arsewipe hadn't been expecting it, he staggered backwards as he tried to shield and deflect the spells but Harry didn't give him much space.

Just like he'd done with the Blast End Skewrt in the Third Task, he dove into a roll – and launched an _Impedimenta_ right into Mister Arsewipe's groin as he passed, freezing him in place as he rolled to his feet, spun around and lashed the back of the man's head with a stunning charm that dropped him like the sack of shit he pretended to be.

And the crowd – went – _wild_.

Harry jolted, green eyes wide as he finally clocked onto the number of _people_ watching him. Sirius shouting and waving, proudly telling everyone near-by that Harry was his godson (he grimaced, they really needed to see the Mind Healer about that denial). The crowd had near enough doubled in size since Harry had jumped down, and he could see all of his former opponents beside Sirius looking both disbelieving but gleeful at the same time, and the little overweight Satyr sprinting over.

"KID! THAT WAS – AMAZING! YOU GOT A COACH? A TRAINER? WHERE'D YOU LEARN THAT? ARGH, WHO CARES!" the man exclaimed excitedly, hopping up and grabbing Harry's arm, "WELCOME TO THE COLOSSEUM! WHAT'S YER NAME?" he bleated dragging Harry down into an uncomfortable bent over semi-crouch.

"Uh," Harry spluttered uncertainly, glancing up to Sirius who blanched and shook his head before pointing to himself, specifically the purple lining of his toga, picking at it meaningfully. "Uh, H-Harry Black," he admitted awkwardly, with wide green eyes. "Wait, what do you mean, 'welcome to the Colosseum'?" he echoed, alarmed.

"You defeated every contender I have! Even the reigning Champ! _You_ are my new Golden Boy!" the Satyr exclaimed, "Name's Phil, I run this here outfit. I've trained the best of the best!" Harry bit back the sassy retort on the tip of his tongue that made him look doubtfully at the man at his feet. Phil caught his glance though and scoffed dismissively. "Reigning champ he may have been, but one of _my_ boys he was not! That there is Bronze Cup Colosseum! **Entertainers** , not athletes! _MY_ contenders are Gold Cup magic users and Underworld Warriors combinin' both magic and physical combat, best o' the best! And between you an' me, I think you've got what it takes to take them on. What do ya say?" he asked eagerly, sticking a hand out to Harry.

The Gryffindor delicately prised the Satyr's hand from his shoulder, "I think I'm not yet of age, and require parental consent, and as of right now, I have my education to think of," he refused, wriggling away and trying not to literally just curse the satyr away from him. He hated people touching him, and the gregarious little being smelt foully of cheese, sweat, and old grapes.

Phil pulled a face, "Alright, I can respect that. Yer takin' yer education seriously. S'good to hear. But if you ever change yer mind, and yer old man agrees, yer name'll be on the rosters. Just say the word. Ya've earned that right."

Harry nodded, now more relaxed that the satyr wasn't touching him, "Thanks. I just might. It was fun but... yeah, your fighters really need to stop thinking Duel, and start thinking Fight. They have a whole arena to play with, they should use it," he pointed out as he gestured around them. "Even if they _are_ just entertainers. Surely it would be more interesting."

"Quick question, kid, before you go. Your wand... what's the spec on that thing?" the Satyr asked curiously. "I ain't seen that kinda wood before. What is it?"

Harry shifted a little awkwardly, asking for the details of someone's wand was... rather personal.

"Cedar," he admitted quietly, so only the Satyr and Mister Unconscious Arsehole could hear him. "Cedar and Phoenix feather."

Phil blanched. "Ah. Well, that's explains that. Okay. Off you go back to yer Dad."

Harry nodded and scrambled up the edges of the arena and into Sirius's enthusiastic affection, and the admiration of the other Gladiators. All around him was a press of bodies, strangers all, and he was beginning to feel a little overwhelmed.

Across the arena, hidden behind several stalls, a pair of fighters watched as the kid and his father managed to muscle their way out of the crowds and escape through the streets of the Bazaar, leaving a hyped up crowd in their wake buzzing with conversation. Glowing blue eyes flicked to stormy grey. "It looks as though we may have someone worth fighting soon enough," blue eyes observed quietly, his voice rough like gravel against stone.

Grey eyes hummed dismissively, "We'll see," he replied in a smooth baritone, eyes following the unruly head of chocolate-black hair, and large doe-like green eyes. "We'll see," he murmured quietly to himself.

 _ **000**_

 **Dun dun dun!**

 **Harry is kicking ass, taking names, and probably shouldn't be quite so public with either. Sirius is still cracked and madder than a hatter, so deep in denial he may as well be wiping his arse with papyrus.**


End file.
